


the black horse baby

by isawet



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F, F/M, Family, Fix-It, Found Family, Gen, vaguely canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-10-22
Packaged: 2018-04-23 23:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4896025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isawet/pseuds/isawet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pete and Myka, PeteAndMyka, Myka, Myka and HG, MykaHG. A progression.</p><p>Life at the Warehouse rolls on, and everyone is just trying to figure out where they fit. Myka-centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I can't come over to you

**Author's Note:**

> So I haven't actually seen the last season yet, because sometimes I don't watch the end of things so I can pretend they last forever. But I am aware of events/characters in the last season, and this is sort of me trying to reconcile Pete/Myka with REALITY. Ahem. But if you're nitpicky about canon I suggest you think of this as an AU or something similar.
> 
>  
> 
> I am without a beta, and I will continue to fix typos and other errors as I become aware of them. Additionally, this story may have the worst summary I have ever written.

Here’s the thing about Pete and Myka being… PeteAndMyka. They don’t have sex. They had sex once, after Pete’s freakout about losing her and a kiss, Myka feeling impulsive and vulnerable in a way she hadn’t been since Sam. They slip into Pete’s room that night, ignoring Claudia’s flirty, knowing, wink, and Pete kisses her sweetly against his closed door, his fingers hooked into her beltloops. She pushes him towards the bed and steps on a nerf football, stumbling as it squeaks.

“Seriously?” she mumbles against his jawbone.

Pete flops back to lie on his bed, grinning at the ceiling. “I do my best thinking playing sports.”

It’s been a long time since Myka’s had sex, and her collarbone tingles where Pete had scraped his teeth over the fine skin covering the bone. She straddles him on the bed and ruffles her fingers through his hair. “Too long,” she murmurs.

Pete slips her fingers up her shirt and traces her ribcage. Myka’s breath catches and her hips roll, lazy. “Mykes,” Pete breathes, and sits up to kiss her again.

 

The sex was soft and loving and sweet and after Myka kicks a bag of corn chips off the bed to make room for them to roll out of the wet spot Pete slips behind her and helps her shove the mass of her curls off her sweaty neck, blowing on her skin to make her shiver and laugh, and they whisper _I love yous_ before falling asleep.

//

After that there’s a week in the Netherlands chasing Daniel Fahrenheit’s blown glass mercury thermometer, which is causing world record temperature highs. Myka and Pete agree they would both rather die that touch each other, themselves, anyone or anything, and in fact death or an icy pond would be preferable than staying one more day in the Hague.

//

Ten days in Newcastle with Claudia tracking down Douglas Gairdner’s folio of extensive notes, sketchings, pictures, and interviews--compiled to protest male circumcision. 

(“Reports indicate the artifact has… complicated effects.” Artie adjusts his glasses.

“I’m out,” Pete says, and snatches at Claudia’s inventory tablet. “Steve?”

“Inventory party,” Steve agrees, and clicks a pen.

“Lady party,” Claudia cheers, holding her fist out for Myka to bump, and then her face twists, “but less gay. Not that I’m against the gay.” She turns to Steve in a panic. “I love the gays!”

“The gays thank you,” Steve says seriously.)

//

And after it’s just… easy. It’s easy for Myka to sit tucked in the curl of Pete’s body while they watch terrible monster movies and Claudia throws popcorn at the screen, easy to fall asleep with their legs tangled, to kiss him once, closed mouth as they split for missions.

 

Myka takes on a project--complete and total inventory, digitally compiled into a single database, to be organized by name, artifact creator, location, side effects, date, and anything else she can possibly think of. Available in the cloud or downloaded for Agents in the field. “It’s perfect,” Myka says, pacing in front of her bed with one hand pressed to her forehead. “I don’t why I didn’t think of it before!”

Pete flips a page of the comic book he’s reading on her bed and ticks his words off on his fingers. “Artie blew up, your dad choked on the House of Usher, H.G. tried to end the world, Sykes tried to end the world, Parrotcleftus tried to end the world.”

“Really,” Myka interjects, “you get The Fall of the House of Usher but not the father of toxicology?”

Pete snorts and flips another page with a flourish. “Father of asshole-ogy.”

Myka shoves his booted feet off her bedspread and ignores his comment. “See, Artie doesn’t so much catalogue things as throw them onto a shelf organized by word association, smash his fingers against the input keyboard and wax poetic about the ideals of the Luddites.”

“Harumph I miss the days of yore of quill and ink and blinding syphilis,” Pete adds in his best old man voice.

Myka waves her hand impatiently, “A complete database,” she continues, almost dreamy, “we could maybe--reorganize? Alphabetically, and put in plexiglass--” The number of times artifacts have fallen off shelves and activated, honestly.

“Mmm,” Pete says in his sexy bedroom voice, which is vaguely reminiscent of a cross between the cookie monster and Yoda, “talk Dewey to me.”

Myka lets herself be hooked by his flailing ankle and drags her feet, playful, until she topples over the bed and lands on top of him. “You did that to yourself,” she says when he wheezes.

“How do you say pointy elbows in Latin?”

They kiss once, light and easy, and Myla leans back to better see his smile, and knows she loves him and he loves her too.

She reads _Brynhild_ and he falls asleep in the space between her hips, her nails scratching lightly across his scalp.

//

“Okay,” Claudia says in Bakersfield, stretched out on a shitty motel bed and feeding the Magic Fingers quarters, “girl time. I need me some girl time.” She digs in a pocket and produces a bottle of cheap black nail polish. “I found this the other day, Nick left it behind--god, how did I not see that evil betrayal coming?”

Myka tucks her go bag into the tiny closet and kicks it shut with the back of her heel before entering the bathroom to splash water on her face. She takes a deep breath and looks at the water dripping off her skin in the mirror. “You never see betrayal coming,” she murmurs, and wipes at her mascara with a tissue from her bag. She hears the Magic Fingers rumble to life and Claudia moans. Myka leans on the doorjamb and watches her stretched out, the streak in her hair bright yellow. It makes her hair look like flame, flickering, and she still looks so young, and cheerful, and happy to be here in Bumfuck California investigating suspicious cow tippings. Myka treasures the sight, commits it to her perfect memory, and then bounces on the mattress to join her.

“There’s a thing I want to talk about,” Claudia says, “but it might upset you. And Pete. And me. And then all our upset with upset Artie, and maybe New Girl.”

“Abigail,” Myka corrects absently, not too worried about it. She’s pretty sure Claudia likes Abigail. “What about Steve?”

Claudia waves a hand dismissively, “Steve is zen. No upset.”

“Claudia,” Myka says, adopting the firm big sister tone that generally reaps results when Claudia gets cagey and anxious. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s you,” Claudia says finally.

Myka blinks. “Me?”

“You and Pete,” Claudia clarifies.

“Me and Pete,” Myka parrots, and sits up. “Claudia, just because Pete and I have changed doesn’t mean--” she falters. “You’re family. Always.”

“No,” Claudia says, “that’s not-- look, not that I want to hear you guys getting your freak on, but it’s hard to miss that I _don’t_ hear it.”

“You’re upset because you haven’t been hearing us having sex,” Myka says, incredulous.

“You and Pete have this connection,” Claudia says, staring at the ceiling. “One of the reasons I wanted a partner so bad… me and Jinksy have our own thing, and I love it. You and Pete, you have this amazing, beautiful, intense relationship and I think….”

Myka feels suddenly on edge. “What do you think, Claudia.” Her voice comes out harder than she meant, and Claudia flinches.

“I think that you guys confused finding your platonic soulmate with finding a love connection and you’re both using it as a crutch.” It comes out of her in a rush, her eyes screwed up against Myka’s possible reaction.

The Magic Fingers click off, and the room is painfully silent. “I see,” Myka says stiffly. She stands and grabs her jacket slung over a chair. “I’ll be back.”

Claudia scrambles to her feet. “Myka wait--”

“I’ll be back,” Myka says in a tone that shuts down all argument. She pauses with the door open. “Lock it behind me,” she says, making a momentous effort to gentle her tone. Claudia nods, stricken, and Myka is careful not to slam the door behind her.

“Family,” Claudia echoes, and shoves her palms into her eye sockets. “ugh Claudia, you are just the _worst_.”

//

Myka ducks into a secluded corner of the train station and hovers her finger over Pete in her contacts, marked with a little gold star under _favorites_. She clicks the phone dark with a pulse of pressure and breathes loud and frustrated through her nose. She thinks about the last kiss she and Pete had, three am at the B &B, her bag over one shoulder. Pete tucked her glasses into the bag and clipped her gun to her belt.

“Have fun with Claud,” he said, sleepy eyed, and kissed her temple while she chugged coffee.

 

Myka calls Steve.

//

Here is a thing that happened once:

Helena curled on the chair in Myka’s room, twisting a lock of dark hair around one finger, lazy and languid, tapping a finger on the cover of the book she’s reading. She’s squinting, just a little, and Myka wonders if she needs glasses. She’s reading _The Leather Boys_ , and there’s a very slight furrow between her eyebrows and she turns the pages, fingers so very gentle on the paper.

Myka sits propped up on her bed, fever flushed, drinking chicken broth out of a thermos Leena gave her. There’s a copy of _The Two Towers_ on the mattress next to her, her favorite get well book, but she waits, just a moment, to watch Helena’s mouth quirk at the corners when she finds a passage she likes. Myka watches, and idly, almost lazily, _wants_.

//

“Myka?” Steve’s voice is rough, and Myka checks her watch. Eleven in California means two in the morning in Massachusetts.

“Did I wake you? How goes the search?”

“Tourists,” Steve grumbles, “so many tourists. You know, I thought the Warehouse would have tracked down all the Salem artifacts by now. Pete’s in the next room, complaining about rocks, I can...?”

“No,” Myka says quickly. She rubs a hand across her eyes. “I called to talk to you. I was wondering if you could,” she pauses to struggle for words, “use your power? On me?”

She can practically hear Steve frowning over the phone. “I’m always using my power, Myka, it doesn’t have an off switch. You want to lie to me for practice?”

“Well,” Myka says, fumbling, “what if I just say a few things, and then you can tell me if I’m lying.” There’s another dragging pause.

“That’s not really how this works,” Steve says finally. “It’s not nuanced. I can tell when someone is straight up lying, but blended lies are difficult, and if the person themselves doesn’t know if they’re lying…”

“Right,” Myka says, forcing her voice to stay even, “yeah, of course. I’m sorry for even bringing it up.”

“Myka,” Steve starts, and Myka takes a deep breath.

“Good luck with the artifact,” she says, and hangs up before he can finish.

//

Myka dreams about Sam, for the first time in ages, the early stages where they had sex on the stairs of his condo, against the wall of her apartment, just because they couldn’t stand to wait, to walk fifteen more steps to the bed. She dreams about the jolt in her skin where he touched her and the way heat would curl in her belly just at one look from him, how when they were apart she trailed her nails across her hips and thighs and just the thought of him made her wet.

//

Claudia is timid the next day, restrained and unhappy, moping over her gravy fries. Myka picks at the roadside diner house salad, the lettuce sad and wilted. The Italian dressing is all oil and Myka throws her fork aside with a sigh. “What’s our next move?”

“Here’s the thing about cow tipping,” Claudia says, brightening slightly at the prospect of a good educational ramble, “it’s basically not a thing.” She shoves four fries in her mouth at once and continues, slightly muffled. “Cows are like, seriously massive, and they don’t even sleep lying down! It’s basically a giant myth idiot teenagers and college students tell each other to seem like something cool ever happens on the giant manure collections some call family farms.”

Myka recalls the last family farm they visited. “I saw those cows and they were definitely tipped.” Really, definitely, violently tipped. Claudia had gone white and thrown up behind a tool shed, and Myka had trouble not following suit. Claudia pales a little just remembering, and puts down the fry that had been halfway to her mouth. Myka snatches it up and immediately regrets it, cold potato and heavy flour gravy.

Claudia perks up at Myka’s grimace. “Have we considered aliens? I’ve watched The X-Files, you know. Cattle mutilation is definitely aliens.”

Myka reviews the case file. “Mm. There’s a university nearby. If stories and rumors of cow-tippings are linked to schools, we should start there.” She tosses some cash on the table and stands, draining the last of the shitty coffee. “Let’s go.”

Claudia scootches across the vinyl booth, her jeans dragging loudly. “You’re for sure Scully, Mykes. _For sure_.”

Myka pauses, change for the tip jangling in her fingers. "You're not the worst, Claud."

Claudia gapes at her. " _Witchcraft_ ," she accuses.

Myka rolls her eyes. "I just know you, that's all. And I'm sorry." She grinds to a halt, unwilling to elaborate, and lets the quarters fall from her hand to the plastic coated tabletop.

Claudia links their arms together, tight enough to draw them up, pressed side by side. "I got your back," she promises.

//

“I think you might have been right,” Myka says, leaning in a dorm hallway. Claudia blinks at her. She opens her mouth to respond and is interrupted by a dorm door swinging open.

A nineteen to twenty-something girl blinks at them. She’s dressed in a snuggie. There’s gum in her hair, pulled sideways into a ratty braid, and she’s eating ramen noodles out of a plastic ziplock bag. “You know anything about cow-tipping?” Claudia asks, chipper.

The girl blinks. “I like your hair,” she says. Claudia brightens.

Myka sighs and grabs her badge off her belt. “Secret Service.”

The girl squeaks and drops her noodles. Fake chicken broth splashes Myka’s boots. “Is this about the torrents?” The girl asks. She looks terrified. “Oh my god, I didn’t think people really cared about that.”

“Cow-tipping,” Myka repeats. “I need information on a cow-tipping in the area.”

“I’m taking Organic Chemistry this semester,” the girl says, “I don’t even go outside.”

“Be a good person,” Claudia says with an over-exaggerated wink, “don’t pirate!”

//

“You’re hot for a FBI lady,” nameless frat boy #7 says, and Myka lets herself roll her eyes. 

“I’m not with the FBI,” she says. The boy smells like weed and sweat and old beer and Myka is so over it. She puts her hand on his chest and applies pressure until he steps back, hungover eyes broadcasting confusion. She reaches past him for the doorknob and shuts the door in his face.

“I’m so over this,” Claudia says, echoing Myka’s thoughts, and Myka spares her a smile. There’s a thumping pain just behind her eye-sockets, and she wonders if she was this much of a dipshit when she was in school. “This is the college experience you and Artie were pushing on me?”

Myka rubs at the space between her eyes. “Believe me, I’m re-assessing.”

Claudia’s phone beeps. “Hey,” she says, frowning at it. “remember the Farmer Bill?”

“Frank,” Myka corrects.

Claudia makes an impatient motion the hand not holding her phone, “Dead cow man. My background check came in, and he was arrested for breaking into a frat house two months ago, waving a hoe--a farming hoe not a--” Claudia looks up. “You know. Anyway, broke in, waved rusty metal tools around and shouted something along the lines of stay off my lawn. And away from my cows.”

Myka taps her fingers on her hip. “Did he take anything?”

Claudia flicks her nail against the screen, scrolling, “Frat boys claim he stole items with ‘sentimental value.’” She looks up in disbelief. “What, the empties of their ancestors?”

“He would have been angry,” Myka muses, “frustrated, not planned out. Things he could grab, shove in his pocket. Small objects.”

“Artiact-y objects,” Claudia agrees. She shoves her phone into a pocket. “Back to Farmer Dave?”

Myka taps a finger on her nose.

//

“Ah-ha!” Claudia crows, zipping a static bag shut with a plasticky snap. “Just call me the cow saviour. Bovine Jesus, if you will.”

Frank, the farmer that owned the keyring artifact, makes the sign of the cross and glowers disapprovingly. Myka hooks her hand into Claudia’s elbow. “The Secret Service thanks you for your service to your country,” she says, and drags Claudia to the car. “Call Artie,” she says, “we’re headed to the airport.”

Claudia starts to roll the window down, panting overdramatically in the dry blistering heat, and then stops. “Oh god the stench,” she gags, and jabs at the window button in a panic until it seals with a snap. Myka clicks the central air on and hands her the Farnsworth. “Artie,” Claudia calls cheerfully when he picks up. “Frat keychain, filled with all the grossness of boys pretending they’ve done things they’ve never done. We’re lucky cow tipping is the only thing that went down.”

Artie peers at them, distorted by the faintly fishbowl lens of the Farnsworth. “Good. Get back here, I have… news.” He hangs up before they can question him further. 

Myka pulls on the highway and flips on the radio, dialed down to play softly in the background. “Myka,” Claudia says, and then stops, fidgeting. Myka waits her out. “About what you said, earlier.”

“I’m just sorry,” Myka says again, “about…. snapping. Pete and I will work ourselves out. Don’t worry, okay?”

“I’m not worried,” Claudia says. When Myka glances at her sideways her brow is furrowed, a wrinkle between her eyes. “I just. I want you to be happy.”

Myka reaches across them and grips Claudia’s hand, gently clasped over the gear shift between the seats, more direct than she usually allows herself. A gesture of comfort more like Pete than Myka. “I’m not unhappy,” she promises.

//

Claudia lurches out of the SUV and groans, bow-legged and stiff. “God,” she grumbles, and arches her entire body in a lingering stretch. Myka slides out after her and leans backward until her spine cracks, releasing pressure in a series of satisfying pops. She rolls her head to ease the ache in her neck and pulls their duffels from the backseat. The screen door to the inn bangs and Steve trots down the stairs. 

“Jinksy,” Claudia calls, joyous, and bounds forward for a hug. Myka tenses--Steve’s face is tight, his jawbone clenching and unclenching, and although he gathers Claudia close, warm and automatic, his eyes seek out Myka’s and hold.

“Where’s Pete?” Myka asks, casting her gaze behind him. Shadows move in the doorway, but she can’t quite make it out.

“He had to take a walk,” Steve says, carefully measured. “Myka, there’s something you should know before you go in---” He keeps talking, but his voices fades out to a mumbling murmur, Myka’s full attention consumed by Helena walking outside, a loose white shirt and black slacks, her hair longer than Myka has ever seen it. Her nails are painted clear and shiny, her fingers hooked around the edge of the screen door. A breeze ruffles across them, fluttering her bangs. Myka smells green apples and soft leather.

The world returns. “H.G.’s back,” Steve says.

//

“I’m tired,” Myka says. She holds her breath as she moves, and still she can feel the warmth of Helena’s body when she slides past her in the doorway. She quickens her strides to reach the stairs. 

“Myka,” Helena calls out, and follows her up the stairs. “If you’d allow me to--”

Myka ducks into her room and turns, pasting a wide smile on her face. “Welcome back,” she says, and gets her first full look at Helena’s face, vulnerable and hopeful all at once. Involuntarily, her smile evolves into something sincere. “Are you sure, Helena?”

Helena tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “I am.”

“I’m glad,” Myka says, and jerks her free hand behind her, “I’m just. Kinda tired, you know?”

Helena steps back. “Of course. We’ll have time to speak more later.”

“Right,” Myka says, and shuts the door. She leans back against it and takes a deep breath. Then another. She lets her bag fall from numb fingers and drags her feet on the floor. Flops face first on the mattress. She pulls a pillow over her head and smells the laundry detergent on her sheets, soft and sweet.

//

The bed dips and Pete leans on her. She groans and bats at him. “What’s the play, Mykes?” he asks.

Myka lifts the pillow of her head and hands it to him, a plea for mercy. He snorts and tosses it to the side. “Where were you?” Myka demands, her voice muffled. She rolls over and drags her hands across her face.

“I was angry,” Pete says, “I had to. Take a walk.” Myka feels a flush of guilt. She’d forgotten about Pete’s anger towards Helena, about Kelly, his mother, Cairo. She sits up and Pete takes her hand. “I know she’s done good things,” Pete continues, “but she’s so hard on you, you know? Makes me mad.” Warmth blooms sweet and easy in Myka’s chest, flushing her cheeks. She feels butterflies. She catches Pete in a kiss, awkwardly hunched over, and for the first time in a while her belly drops when his tongue touches hers. She presses against him, traces her nails through his hair.

“Hold on,” he mumbles when she’s practically in his lap, “hold on, hold on. Come here.” He pulls the blankets up and rolls them under it, pulling the sheet over their heads. He settles over her in a way that manages to be comforting rather than oppressive, and she feels herself settle for the first time since she saw Steve coming down the steps, that look on his face.

//

Myka wakes alone, and stretches in the empty expanse of the bed before going to the sink and splashing water on her face. Four in the morning, reads her watch lying on the bathroom counter. She pulls one of Pete’s shirts over her head and digs in a drawer for running shorts. The inn is achingly quiet as she goes down the stairs, gathering her curls into a loose bun. The silence seems loud all of a sudden, screaming at her, so she quickens her step until she’s easing the door shut behind her. Birds are just starting to caw and chirp, heralding false dawn, and bugs hum faintly. She takes a deep breath of brisk morning air and starts out slow, her feet puffing dust into the air.

//

She gets back before it’s fully light out and runs her hands under the kitchen tap, drags cold fingers across her collarbones, around her neck. Water drips down her back and she shivers.

“You’re up early,” Helena says, and hands Myka a kitchen towel, checkered black and white.

“Went for a run,” Myka says. The clock hanging on the wall ticks gently, and the water trickles as Helena holds the kettle under it, a metal green monstrosity Lena bought to make Helena feel more at home. Myka opens the gas line and flicks the light. Blue flames leap up under the back burner, and Helena murmurs thanks as she clunks the heavy kettle onto the coils.

“I feel as though I owe you an explanation,” Helena ventures, leaning against a counter. Myka makes herself busy with the coffee machine, switching off the automatic brewing function and dumping the water out to refill again. “Considering how we left things.”

Myka adds two scoops of ground beans to the already filled filter. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Helena lets the silence drag out for a moment, long enough for the coffee machine to start gurgling and hissing. “I do believe that is the greatest lie you’ve ever told.”

Pete arrives in the kitchen with a thump. “Shower’s free,” he crows, and catches sight of Helena. His expression freezes.

Helena’s face twists. “Excuse me.” She leaves, and Myka feels guilty again. She pulls the coffee pot out and sloshes too-strong coffee into the mug Claudia got her for her birthday, an internet joke she doesn’t fully understand painted across a seafoam green background. Coffee drips while she’s got the pot removed from the warmer, hissing against the hot metal plate, and she hurries to return the pot back to the machine.

“Ewww,” Pete teases, “you’re sweaty.” He makes a big show of being disgusted, and Myka laughs. “No seriously, don’t come near me,” he continues, and Myka advances, backing him up against the sink. She rubs her face on his shirt and giggles when he kisses her.

“Pardon me,” Helena says stiffly. Myka jumps, and Pete settles his hands on her hips to steady her. The kettle whistles, and Helena turns the stove off. They stay in awkward silence while Helena pulls a mug out of the cupboard, purple with red accents, and a tea satchel. She leaves without another word, and Myka lets out a long exhale. 

Pete steps away from her and braces his hands on the edge of the counter top. “What’s the play, Mykes?”

Myka pours her coffee down the drain and soaks the mug. “I need a shower.”

//

Pete pulls the plug on her hairdryer. “Myka.”

Myka exhales, heavily, and drops the hairdryer into a drawer. She buttons up her blouse. “It’s not her fault.”

Pete shrugs. “It’s not yours.”

Myka drags fingers through her curls. “It’s good she’s here. She belongs here.”

“Okay,” Pete says. He picks up her mascara and pulls the little wand out. “Do you think I could rock this? Be honest. I’m thinking my eyes could use defining.”

Myka grabs it from him, smiling. “You’re pretty just as you are, princess.”

//

“They’re having an exhibition showing of Kokan Shiren,” Artie says at breakfast. Abigail’s pancakes are the palest shade of blonde, just the way Claudia likes them. Pete microwaves them for thirty seconds then drowns them in maple syrup. Myka slices a peach in half with a butter knife and pries out the pit, lets the juice runs down her fingers and across her wrist. “San Francisco. The flight leaves in three hours and it’s a two hour drive to the airport.” Artie slaps a case file down on the table. “Who wants it?”

“A choice?” Claudia gulps a mouthful of pancake down to make the first comment. “Sure you’re okay, Artie? Coming down with something?” She holds the back of her hand to Artie’s forehead, faux concern. Artie slaps at her, irritated.

“Dibs,” Pete calls while Claudia’s distracted. “Myka and I haven’t been in the field together in ages.” He snatches the file up, leaves a smear of syrup across the manila, same shade as the pancakes on Myka’s plate.

“No fair,” Claudia grumbles, “that means I get Frederic training and you get to shack up with Myka in San FranMcAwesomeville?”

“We’ll send you a postcard,” Pete says cheerfully. “I gotta pack.” He drops the folder at Myka’s elbow and clomps up the stairs.

“Inventory,” Steve says before Artie can. “I’ll… show H.G. the ropes.”

Helena is eating pancakes with a knife and fork, the only one at the table to do so, since Artie is sullenly consuming oatmeal, the healthier option Claudia spooned him with a pointed look. “I’ve been navigating the ropes since before you were born.”

Myka can feel Helena’s eyes on her, and she opens the case file briskly, licking peach off her wrist and grimacing at the sticky syrup smear on the cover. She’s already packed, her go bag in the car, always prepared. “Great,” Steve says, forced cheer. “It’s gonna be an awesome day.”

“ _Loveshack_ ,” Claudia hums, laying pancakes over her eyes and making zombie hands at Steve. He throws grapes at her, and she catches one in her mouth, blind and smiling, “ _baby, Loveshack_.”

//

Pete drools on her shoulder, and Myka watches the Bay come into view from the dirty plastic window. Airplane air gives her a headache and makes her mouth dry, and she digs in the seatback pocket for a bottle of water. She pokes Pete in the ribs and takes three quick swallows before offering him the bottle. He drains it, digging sleep from his eyes with his knuckles and wiping his fingers on her shirt, tired grin. She rolls her eyes and the captain comes on the intercom, ordering the flight attendants into their seats.

“Give me the rundown,” Pete says, flicking the case file sitting loose in Myka’s lap. “Unless you’d rather join the mile high club before we touch down.” Myka rolls her eyes. “Maybe on the return trip,” he amends, and wiggles his eyebrows.

“Kokan Shiren,” Myka says, stumbling over the pronunciation. “Most famous for his Chinese poetry, fourteenth century. Disappearances follow his exhibitions dating back to the 19th century, most notably art curators and museum workers in charge of artifact upkeep.” She hands Pete a page of glossy photos, very old paper with gold leaves around the edges, Chinese characters fading in vertical rows. “A few of his surviving pieces are being put on brief display at San Francisco State University.” She scans down, idly committing relevant information to memory. “On loan from Beijing University.”

Pete unearths a few peanuts that had fallen into the folds of his pants earlier and pops them in his mouth. “Last disappearance?”

Myka snaps the file shut and hands it to him. “Nearly fifteen years ago, a paper cleaning expert at Miho Museum in Japan. They don’t display his work very often.” She rolls her neck, feeling a crick coming on, and Pete’s palm, broad and warm, falls on her shoulder, massaging absent-mindedly.

“Artie fix us a way in?”

“Sort of,” Myka murmurs. There’s a weight in her pocket she’s not thinking about.

//

The poetry is being displayed in a small room off a library, dimly illuminated with soft gentle light and decorated with signs warning against flash photography. A security guard stands just inside the door, bored and underpaid. Pete bends over the glass, squinting, and Myka goes to the side, scanning the plastic white placards. “Rhyme Prose on a Miniature Landscape Garden,” Pete says. “The trees are cool, though.”

There are small miniature gardens lining the walls, displayed in raised containers. Sand and rock formations, intricate designs, trickling streams only a centimeter across, all dotted with miniature bonsai trees. Myka marvels at the delicate detail, and holds out a finger, hovering over tiny branches. The placard’s text is stored in her brain, and Myka indulges in showing off her memory, standing at Pete’s shoulder as they look at poetry they can’t understand. “ _The marvelous thing about miniature landscape gardens is that they are imitations of mountains and streams. If do you think this miniature landscape is big? Do you think it is small? I will blow on the water and raise up billows from the four seas. I will water the peak and send down a torrent from the ninth heaven._.”

“Cool,” Pete repeats and grins at her. Endless wonder, Myka thinks, doesn’t always come from the pseudo-magic of the Warehouse. They exhale in tandem and stand. Pete casts a glance back at the security guard and lowers his voice. “I’ve been thinking, Mykes. Not so many disappearances, all people left alone with the paper or in charge or actually touching the paper.”

Myka frowns. She had considered it on the plane, but--”They would have all worn gloves,” she says, “which doesn’t necessarily mean they wouldn’t have been affected, but--” But gloves do tend to lessen artifact influences, even non-neutralizing pairs.

“Myka,” Pete says, “if there’s one thing I know, it’s that people cannot resist touching things they’re not supposed to touch. Trust me.”

“Okay,” Myka says. She lowers her voice to a whisper. “How do you feel about breaking into a library and touching things no-one’s supposed to touch?”

“That’s the hottest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Pete answers, and loops an arm around her waist. His arm feels suddenly heavy.

“We’re working,” Myka says, sharper than she meant to, and shakes him off.

//

“Come on,” Pete wheedles, “we’re cat-burgling! You gotta dress like a cat burglar!”

“You look like a composite drawing of a mugger from Central Park,” Myka informs him, and pulls on her blazer. She’s wearing dark slacks, a dark shirt, shoes she can run in. There are lock picks in her pocket. She feels like she’s exerted enough effort.

Pete looks down at himself, all black sweats and gloves. “Is the beanie too much?”

Myka lets her look speak a hundred words. “Take this.” She hands him a pen, worn out and old-fashioned.

“Henry Fermentation’s click-pen,” Pete says, excited.

“Enrico Fermi,” Myka corrects, rechecking her pockets and grabbing the car keys off the dresser.

Pete waves her correction away like smoke in the air. “Electro-magnetic pulse on command. So. Cool.”

“It should take care of the cameras and alarms,” Myka says and turns to see his thumb hovering over the depressor. “Maybe I should--”

“You should definitely,” Pete agrees, and hands it over. “Give me the magic glass cutter.”

Myka rolls her eyes, but digs out the penlight and lets him take it. “Boys and their toys.”

Pete sticks his tongue out at her, casual, and makes lightsaber noises all the way to the car.

//

With no lights, the miniature gardens are even more beautiful, lit by blue lights under the water, casting unearthly glows across the crystalline rocks and tiny tree trunks. Myka slips the Fermi’s pen and Madhukar Prabhakar’s lockpicks back in her pocket. Pete clicks on Joshua Cowen’s flashlight and hands it to her, so she can light him while he cuts.

The laser cutter hums and whines, and Pete stops when he’s got a good enough circle cut out. Myka, with her smaller hands, tips the circle inwards, slides her hand in and catches it before it hits the bottom of the case. She pulls it out and miscalculates. The edge, still burning hot, catches her finger. She hisses, fingers releasing automatically, and it falls to the ground where it clinks, loud. “Shit,” she mutters, and they freeze, ears straining. There’s a noise like footsteps, a keyring jangling. 

“I’ll goo it,” Pete whispers, “gimme the can. You’re dressed less sketchy, go handle the guard.”

“Meet me at the car,” Myka agrees, and slips out the door, careful to shut it behind her. She pulls her hair out of its ponytail and shakes it out, strips off purple gloves and shoves them in a pocket. The light from a flashlight flickers around a corner, and she fixes her best bitch-in-boots look on her face.

She rounds the corner, making her steps click loudly. “You call this security?” She demands. The security guard fumbles, caught off-kilter and scared, and drops the can of mace instead of aiming it at her. It rolls away into the dark. “Oh well done,” Myka sneers.

“Stop right there!” The guard shouts, delayed. He’s youngish, maybe late twenties, dark hair and dark eyes. He’s wearing a gold cross around his neck, on a thin chain.

Myka rolls her eyes, big and theatrical. “Oh please.” She flashes her badge, then holds long enough for him to read it, match the picture to her face. “I don’t think the Dean will be pleased to hear the President is reconsidering his visit.”

The guard pales, then stutters. “Well--I--no.”

Myka presses the advantage, withdrawing a small notepad from her pocket and Fermi’s pen, which she carefully doesn’t click. Instead, she drags the bottom of the pen across the page in a sloppy illusion, scratching indents but no ink. “A power outage brings security to its knees? Doesn’t fill me with confidence on how you’d handle a viable threat, Mister….” she makes a show of looking at his nametag, “Gado. G--” She makes exaggerated writing motions, “A--D--O.” She snaps the notebook shut and turns on her heel, taking confident strides towards the exit, marked by floor lighting patterns. She tosses back over her shoulder, “The White House Chief of Staff will be in touch.”

//

Pete is leaning against the car door, and when he sees her, he does jazz hands. “Just call me Catwoman.”

Myka clicks the car unlocked and hauls open the driver-side door. “So we were right? It was the poetry itself?”

They settle into the leather seats and Myka turns the engine over. “I’m not sure,” Pete says. “There was sparkage, but it was… odd.”

“Partner artifact?” Myka suggests, pulling out of the darkened parking lot and pointing the car towards the motel. “Maybe we should stick around for a few days, see if there’s activity.”

Pete pauses for a few seconds, then shakes his head. “Nah. It wasn't that weird. Sometimes they interact weird with the neutralizer, we know that.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Pete says, firm. “With the gaps in activity anyway it wouldn’t do any good to stick around with no evidence. We’ll have Claudia put a tag on the exhibit, and if something happens again we’ll track it down.”

“Sounds good,” Myka says, but when Pete pulls out the Farnsworth she stills him with a hand on his elbow. “Maybe we should stick around. But not for the artifact, just…. “ She casts her eyes through the windshield, foggy early morning. “For us.”

She can’t see Pete’s face, but when Artie picks up he speaks quickly, says they’re tracking down another lead, doing a thorough job.

//

They stay up late and sleep in late, Myka dozing off during the Jurassic Park marathon, her head on Pete’s bicep. She wakes up at noon with popcorn in her hair, Pete snoring in her ear, and rolls into the shower. The water stays barely lukewarm no matter how she cranks the two unmarked dials, and she pours cheap shampoo over her palms and watches it bubble. She brushes her teeth at the sink in a towel, and frowns at her face. She’d meant to---do something, last night. Sex, or talking, or… something. Something climatic, something more than laughing at Pete’s velociraptor face and falling asleep still in her slacks and socks.

She pulls on underwear, bra, and goes out into the chill of the room for running clothes. Pete is awake, clicking through daytime soaps and lying half-on and half-off the queen mattress. He wolf-whistles at her, and she bends to kiss him half-dressed, close mouthed. Barely six months together and it feels familiar as her whole life. But it doesn’t feel like the butterflies she had in the middle school gym, her first slow dance with Bryan Reynolds, doesn’t feel like the first kiss with Sam, whiskey flavored, doesn’t feel like the ropes twisting her and Helena together, heart-pounding. She drags a shirt over her head and steps into running shorts, sits on the mattress to tie her sneakers. On the television, a woman tells her lover she’s pregnant by another man. 

“Is this working?” Pete asks, behind her. She looks at him over her shoulder and his eyes are wide and soft. Vulnerable.

“I love you,” Myka says, and then, “I don’t know.”

The dramatic music reaches a crescendo and then cuts out. A commercial for toothpaste blares out. “Go running,” Pete says, “I know it helps you think.”

There’s no one that knows Myka like Pete does, and Myka smiles at him, uncertain. “We’ll talk when I get back?”

“Count on it,” Pete agrees.

//

The air is brisk and cold and wet, and Myka taste fog dew on her lips. Her skin breaks out in goosebumps, and she hops on her toes to start warming up. She turns towards the steepest hill and starts a loping jog.

The run leaves her sweaty but settled, her calves and quads aching from the San Francisco slopes. She detours through the motel’s all day complimentary continental breakfast and fills a paper plate with biscuits and burnt sausage links. The elevator’s broken, and she takes the stairs as a cooldown. The keycard beeps green on the door and she kicks her shoes off as she comes in. “I got you grease,” she calls out. “Eat while I shower and then we can--” the room is empty. Myka frowns, and leans over to check the bathroom--the door is on and the lights off, but there’s no one inside. “Pete?”

She checks her phone and the notepad on the provided desk--nothing. His bag is still here, his shoes abandoned by the door. Myka goes to her bag and pulls her gun, her instincts clamoring. She clears the bathroom more thoroughly, checking the shower, and the closet, under the beds. Nothing. She searches for the Farnsworth and can’t find it. Finally, she sits on the bed, knee jumping, and Facetimes Claudia.

“I haven’t heard from him,” Claudia says, the diner in the background. She slurps at something loudly. “Steve’s calling Artie. You tried his phone?” 

“Yeah, it’s here.” Myka turns his phone over in her hand, tilting it so Claudia can see it. Last call was from her, more than twenty four hours earlier. 

“Claudia,” Steve says suddenly, and his tone makes Myka sit up straight. The call tilts, then jerks, as Steve wrests it out of Claudia’s grasp. His concerned face steadies, and he turns the Farnsworth so she can see Artie through the phone. “Artie needs to tell you something.”

“Myka!” Artie’s voice is slightly distorted. “Myka, you’re in the motel room, right?”

“Yeah?”

“Okay, good. Go to the table next to the bed, the side with the lamp, and tell me what you see.”

Myka can see the nightstand from where she’s sitting. “There’s nothing there.”

“Get closer,” Artie orders.

Myka sighs, and turns the camera around on the call so it’s pointed outward. “Look, Artie, there’s nothing.”

“Closer.”

Myka stands and goes to the table, leaning down. “There’s nothing---” Except there was something, something moving. Myka jumps, and drops her phone. She gets on her knees and eyes the table from two inches away. And there, on the cheap wood, is Pete, just shy of an inch tall.

“Hi,” he shouts in a tinny voice. “I think maybe we didn’t get the artifact.”

Myka gropes on the floor until her fingers curl around her phone. “I’m gonna have to call you back,” she says faintly, and hangs up.

//

Myka has to be within a foot of Pete to be able to hear him, and even then his voice sounds like he’s shouting. “I was holding the Farnsworth when it happened,” he explains, “it shrank with me, and I was able to call Artie. And hike to the table from the pillow.”

“You said it was weird when you sprayed it,” Myka says. It’s really annoying she can’t pace while she works through it, but if she stands Pete can’t answer her questions. “How was it weird?”

“It sparked, so it’s definitely an artifact. But it kinda… frizzled?”

“So it’s a partnered artifact? Or it requires something to complete it. Like the Folio.” She gets too antsy and stands so she can pace on the cheap carpet. “We’ll have to go back tonight and hope it’s not partnered.” A plan in place, she lets her mind work through the new information. “It shrinks. It must have shrunk the the other victims--” And they must have died. Stepped on, or eaten by animals, starved or drowned. She goes back to the nightstand and kneels. “Okay?”

“I believe in you, Mykes, but we can’t go back tonight. There’s an event in the library, I saw the posters.”

“Tomorrow night,” Myka says, rubbing her temples. “tomorrow night, we’ll go.”

“Cool,” Pete agrees. “Hey, can you bring that plate over here? This is a limited-time opportunity for my dream of bigger than life-sized breakfast.”

//

Myka spends the day worrying. She worries a fly or a spider will come while she’s not paying attention, she worries they won’t figure it out, that Pete will have to move into some kind of dollhouse, that she’ll step on him, that the little rumble in her brain is relief she’s postponed the talk about their relationship. She falls into a doze around ten, after layering tissue paper on the tabletop for Pete to sleep on. She wakes with a start at six to pour water into a bottlecap for Pete and lie on the bed, watching Turner Classic flicks. She orders pizza to be delivered, Pete’s favorite toppings, and cuts a slice into tiny pieces.

At four someone knocks on the door, and Myka answers it, casting a quick glance at Pete, still absorbed in pepperoni and mushrooms. It’s Claudia, and Myka blows out a sigh of relief. “I’m going crazy waiting.”

Claudia makes a beeline for Pete, bending low to squint at him. “Honey I shrunk the Warehouse Agent,” she breathes. “When are we leaving?”

Myka checks her watch. “Nine hours. Did you bring anything?”

“Yeah,” Claudia says, pulling something out of her pocket. “Not a Warehouse thing, a tech thing.” It’s a sticker, a raised red circle. Claudia puts it on the end of her finger and taps it against Pete’s chest, knocking him over. “Sorry dude. But now we can always find you. It’s like a GPS thing,” she says to Myka, “synced with my phone.”

“Good,” Myka says. “Pizza?”

“Yeah.” Claudia grabs a slice and flops on the mattress. “No Magic Fingers? Boo. What’s on the tube?”

//

They break in at nearly one-thirty, Pete in Myka’s breast pocket, lined with tissues. “Cool,” Claudia notes. The display case is empty, the exhibit removed as a result of their last break in, and Myka wanders the room, restless. “Artie says since the artifact reacted so much last time it’s more like the Folio than the Poe situation.”

Myka fishes Pete out of her pocket and sets him in one of the sand gardens. “The Folio was a spoken component. Is that common?”

“Warehouse records point to yes,” Claudia says. She flicks the plastic panel on the wall where the information placard used to be. “This guy was a poet, right?”

“Right,” Myka says slowly. She had read some of the poetry before, and then that night--something Pete had said sticks in her brain, and she leans close to him. “You touched it, didn’t you?”

Pete has the grace to look shifty. “Everyone touches things they’re not supposed to, Myka. Didn’t you go to Catholic school?”

Myka was public school all the way. Her father managed to both go to church every Sunday and hate religious influences with a fiery passion. When she was younger she thought maybe it was because of the connection between religion and book censorship. When she got older she realized it was because he had enough hate to go around. She rolls her eyes at Pete and stands to speak with Claudia. “The poetry was translated on the wall there,” she says, “I can--” She closes her eyes to remember the exact wording. “ _People who climb mountains do not dislike the so-called baldness; rather, the love the sense of height_.” A breeze roars through the room, unnaturally strong and loud. Myka smells fresh grass and wet rock.

“It’s doing something,” Claudia shouts over the raucous noise. “Keep going.”

Last time Myka had picked what she thought was the most evocative line, a line about what the author had thought, what had moved him, rather than descriptions of how to cultivate a garden. And isn’t that what makes a writer a writer? What connects them to artistry rather than descriptive fact? Sights that touch you, move you, drive you to try to phrase it so it moves other people too. “ _There are caves as if carved in the cliff sides to hide saints and immortals_ ,” she says, and the breeze becomes a hurricane. Claudia yelps, falling over, and Myka slams into the wall, using it to steady herself. She spares a thought for Pete, how he would fare in the hurricane. She pushes past it. “ _Jetties and spits flat enough and long enough for fishermen_ ,” she continues, pressing her hands to her ears to block out the howling wind. “ _The paths and roads are narrow and confined, there are lagoons deep and dark enough to hide dragons._ ”

“Hurry up and finish!” Claudia yells.

“ _There is a vast plain on a fly’s eyelash_ ,” Myka bellows, barely able to suck in enough air to hear her own voice, “ _and whole nations in a snail’s horn!_

The wind dies with a whisper, and Myka blinks, trying to adjust to the abrupt change. Claudia sits up from where she’d been lying on the floor. The wind had ripped paint from the walls, strewn crime scene tape everywhere like confetti paper. Conversely, the gardens stand untouched. “Holy Haiku, Batman,” Claudia groans.

“Not a Haiku,” Myka corrects automatically, and the familiar nitpicking jogs her brain back into action. “Pete!”

“Here,” a normal voice calls. Pete is lying in the only garden ripped apart, destroyed because he’d gone from miniature to normal in a snap. “Ugh,” he groans. Myka hugs him, unbearably relieved, and then draws back. 

“Are you… covered in pizza sauce?”

“Myka come on. How often in life can we say we lay in a bed of pizza and then ate it?”

“Jealous,” Claudia moans, and they high five. 

Pete runs his hands across his torso. "How am I not literal pizza from Typhoon Haiku?"

"Square cube law," Claudia says, at the same time Myka mutters, "terminal velocity--and it's not a Haiku!"

Footsteps thump closer, and a man’s voice shouts. “I don’t think you’re gonna be able to talk us out of this one,” Pete says. He and Claudia crows up to Myka’s shoulders. Myka reaches into her pocket and fingers the weight that’s been dragging on her since they left the Warehouse for the Bay. 

She pulls out the barometer and feels Pete’s breath catch. “Six seconds,” she reminds him, and he nods.

“What?” Claudia asks.

The door swings open. Myka activates the artifact. “Run!” Myka grabs Claudia by the arm and hauls her. Pete shoulders past the frozen security guard, knocking him off his feet. Myka counts the seconds down in her head, maps the shortest route to an exit.

“Sorry,” Pete calls back to the guard on the floor, “just turned big again!”

Claudia giggles a little, breathless with adrenaline, but Myka thinks that guard will suddenly find himself flat on his back with no idea what's happened. The same way Sam had, except it's Myka using the artifact this time.

//

Claudia books their flight for that night and goes down to the liquor store on a candy run. “Find something good to watch,” she calls, and bangs the door shut behind her. Pete changes and they sit on the bed, a foot of space between them.

“So,” Pete says.

“So,” Myka agrees.

//

When Myka was in high school there was a girl on the track team with her that had tattoos on her ankles, matching arrows. Nothing stylized or fancy, just two boxy black lines ending in a triangular point. During warm up stretches she told the team she snuck out of her room through the window, down the tree that grew outside her bedroom, and went to that block of downtown all their parents warned them about. “Used my sister’s fake,” she’d said, grinning.

Later they’d been alone, Myka and her, leaning against the bleachers, panting and sweating and sharing a cup of gatorade. “Why arrows?” Myka asked.

“To remind myself, to always move forward.” She’d had long hair, Myka remembers, dishwater blonde in the shade, strawberry blonde in the summer sun. She always put on bubblegum chapstick before the meets. “There’s a better place somewhere, Myka, better than here and… home. And I’ll get there if I just keep going forward.”

Myka had thought of the argument she’d had the night before, her father threatening removal of fencing if she pulled another B in physics, the way her mother had left to wash dishes when she started to cry, frustrated and furious and so, so trapped. Senior year she and that girl had gotten drunk at a house party together, and Myka had run her fingers across those arrows, inked on thin skin and fine bone, loose from alcohol, and had wondered, just for a second, what bubblegum chapstick would taste like on someone else’s lips.

//

Myka thinks there’s nowhere to go but forward. “This isn’t working,” she admits. 

Pete blows out a long breath. “I know.” Myka jerks her head up, surprised, and he’s smiling, even if it’s a sad smile. “Don’t you think I know you, Mykes?”

Myka bites her lip. “Why isn’t it working? I still love you.”

Pete scoots close to her and wraps an arm around her shoulder. “I’ll always love you, that’ll never change. But I think we… got confused.”

“Claudia says we’re platonic soulmates.”

“Yeah,” Pete says, “I think that’s what we are. I thought about my future while I was small, you know? Because I thought... anyway, I thought about what I wanted.”

Myka leans her head on his chest. “What do you want?”

“A family,” Pete admits, “a wife that makes fun of me, and three kids, a son named for my dad, a daughter for Leena, and a surprise. Maybe an Artie. Maybe a Myka.” He pauses, and his breathing hitches. “And I see you there too, always. Aunt Myka, the no-nonsense.”

Aunt, not mommy. Myka feels a lightness in her chest. It’s relief, clean and purifying. “Not the cool Aunt?”

Pete snorts. “Claudia’s the cool Aunt Myka, please.” His hand tangles with hers. “What do you want?”

Moving forward, Myka thinks. “I don’t know,” she admits. “But I’ll figure it out.”

“We’ll figure it out,” Pete promises, and kisses the top of her head. He clears his throat and stands, wiping at his eyes impatiently. “I’m gonna shower. Tell Claudia to save me some Swedish fish, okay?”

Myka sits on the bed, alone. “Okay.”

//

Myka starts running in earnest, laps around the inn, sometimes down the road to the warehouse and back, long hard runs. Winter comes and Steve joins her, bundled up with hats and gloves and long-sleeved underarmor to keep their body heat from drifting away. They steam by the time they’re back, noses numb, clattering in the kitchen to drink Abigail’s coffee and the pastries she buys. Leena had baked every pastry herself, but Abigail says she isn’t much of a baker, buys danishes and bear claws by the pound and leaves them in sealed tupperware containers on the counter. 

Helena is partnered more often with Steve, now that Claudia is immersed in learning every inch of the Warehouse. They seem to get on well, and sometimes Steve tells her about missions during their cooldown walk: the time she tried to use her American accent to pass as Secret Service, the time he got hit by a Shakespearean mask that made him speak entirely in iambic pentameter and call a New Jersey detective a fustilarian. But mostly they run in a calm silence, the only sounds their huffing breaths, their shoes on the dirt.

//

Helena waits for them one morning, and Myka doesn’t miss the little nod that passes between her and Steve, as Steve peels away for a shower and forgoes their routine of coffee and danishes on the front porch swing. “Conspiring already?” she asks Helena, and pours herself a coffee. “You want one?”

Helena holds up her mug of tea, already made and steaming. “We are partners, you know.”

“I know.” Myka picks an apple out of the bowl on the counter and hesitates. Helena is standing in front of the knife drawer. Their eyes meet.

“I seem to be suffering a distortion of memory,” Helena says. 

“Oh?” Myka is carefully neutral.

“I thought we had previously parted as friends.”

Myka twists the stem of the apple until it comes off in her hand. “I thought so.”

“I’ve been back nearly three months. I think maybe you’ve looked at me twice, not counting just now.”

Myka knows for a dead fact that isn’t true. She doesn't think she’s ever been in a room with Helena and not _looked_. “Oh,” she says instead, and then, “excuse me.” She moves towards the drawer and stops when Helena doesn’t move. Helena takes a step forward, throwing Myka a dare with her eyes.

Myka purses her lips. She could back down, easily, withdraw. She doesn't _need_ a knife. But instead she steps closer and reaches around Helena, fumbling blind for the drawer handle so she can keep their gazes locked. Helena smirks, very faintly. “Are you trying to make up for all the looking just now?”

Myka’s fingers find a paring knife, but she doesn’t back away. “Well if it’s been bothering you…”

“Oh,” Helena says, “ _ever_ so much.”

Myka forgoes the knife and bites into the apple, big and loud and challenging. They’re standing close enough that a few droplets of juice splash on Helena’s neck, and she starts at the sensation. 

“Ping,” yells Artie from the next room, “everyone get in here.”

The moment breaks and Myka rocks backwards. Helena arches an eyebrow. “Not going to clean that up for me?”

Against her will, Myka’s eyes flick to Helena’s collarbones, the curve of her neck. _ping_ , Artie hollers in the background, _ping, ping, ping_ “I think you can handle it,” she says.

//

“Can I tap out?” Myka asks Artie over the Farnsworth two hours later, digging in her closet for the softest hand towel. “Pete’s sick, and since the new vet in town doesn’t do housecalls, I want to take the day to baby him.”

Artie peers at her. “Pete the ferret?”

“No,” Claudia’s voice comes through somewhere behind Artie, tinny and distant, “Pete Lattimer has decided to stop with the pretenses and make veterinarians his primary care physician.”

Artie eyes roll heavenward and hold. “Fine. I’ll send Pete and Steve.” Myka flips the lid closed and goes to her bed, where Pete the ferret is curled up in a sad ball. He scrapes his paws over his face and sneezes snot all over her pillow. Myka wipes at his face gently with a tissue and lifts him up to settle him on the soft towel. She scratches him behind the ear with one finger, the way he likes, and coaxes him to drink water. Her other hand scrolls through her phone, perusing articles on ferret flu.

A series of thumps come closer and closer in the hall and Pete sticks his head in. “Hey. Artie give you leeway?”

“Yeah.” Myka looks down at ferret-Pete and frowns. “Do you think he’s breathing okay? Does he look like he’s breathing okay?”

Pete crosses the room and leans close to the ferret, turning his head to align his ear. “He sounds okay. You’ll take care of him.”

Myka frowns harder. “Yeah. Oh, here.” She gives him the Farnsworth. 

“Thanks,” Pete says and there’s a second right before he turns to leave that is awkward, as he rocks forward to kiss her goodbye, muscle memory, and then stops himself. He shakes his head a little, like he’s lost and off kilter, and it makes Myka’s chest hurt. She pitches herself forward and catches him in a jumbled hug, her arm around his shoulder from the side.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters, caught up with worry and the burning desire to fix it, too impatient to let time mend gentle wounds.

“Hey,” Pete says, turning to hug her proper. Myka presses her face into his shoulder and takes a deep breath. “it’s okay Mykes. We’re good, right?”

Myka steps back and pulls herself together around the edges. “Of course. Go snag and bag.”

“And tag,” Pete says, grinning, and Myka lets his joy pull a smile out of her. “take care of Petey Junior, Steve and I can handle Tess Nelly’s window chair.”

Myka stares. “T.S. Eliot,” she corrects, not without effort. Pete shrugs, and waves tickets in the air.

“And I will give your best to the Red Sox.”

Myka turns back to getting ferret-Pete to drink. “I’m a Mets fan.” Behind her she can hear Pete sputter in disbelief, sharp fake choking sounds of disgust.

Pete puts his hands on her shoulders, dead serious. “Myka, _why_. You’re from Colorado!”

Myka shoves him away, rolling her eyes, and feels easy in her own skin around him for the first time since their haltering talk. Pete snaps a towel at her and she throws used ferret tissues at his face as he leaves. “I like an underdog,” she calls after him, and is still smiling when she hears the door shut downstairs.

//

Artie texts her just after noon, Myka in the kitchen picking through the fridge for the sandwich Pete made late last night and only ate half of. _fret ok ? come now hell Anna vent orator help goop Ernie_. Myka frowns at the message and shuts the fridge. When she looks up Abigail is there.

Myka jumps, “Jesus!”

“Sorry,” Abigail says, “Are you needed at the Warehouse?”

“Yeah,” Myka pops a coke can open and drains it in long quick swallows, savors the acid sugar taste against her teeth.

“Cookie for the road?” Abigail offers her a large chocolate chip cookie, wrapped in a napkin.

“I don’t eat sugar,” Myka says, and grabs her bag, fumbling for her keys without looking. 

Abigail looks at the empty soda can on the counter. “Right. I can check on Pete once in a while, if you want. Rodent Pete, not Sandwich Pete.”

“Ferrets are weasels,” Myka says, successfully digging out her keys and slipping her glasses on, “not rodents.” She blows through the door and heads for her car, calling back over her shoulder, “Thanks!”

“Weasels,” Abigail repeats as the door slams, “right.”

//

“Artie?” Myka calls, stepping into the central office. “What’s a goop Ernie?”

Artie makes impatient eyebrows at her. “What are you talking about?” Myka holds up her phone, the nonsense text visible. Artie squints. “H.G. was doing inventory, we need help in the gooery. Something caught in the cogs again, I think. She’s already there, go make sure it’s not part of a… plot.”

Myka rolls her eyes. “She doesn’t have any plots, Artie.”

“That’s because she used them all up almost killing us and ending the world,” Artie grumbles, but his voice isn’t as sharp as it could be. Myka grabs a hard hat from a hook on the wall and heads for the door. “I didn’t think you were her biggest fan anymore anyway,” Artie calls to her, and she pauses halfway through the door.

“Just because we’re not best friends doesn’t mean I think she’s evil,” Myka snaps. “Again,” she mutters, and heads for the gooery.

 

She can hear the grinding as the gears fail to turn before she turns the corner. Helena is frowning at the console interface against the wall, clicking her fingers against each other. “More silly string?” Myka asks, coming to hover at her shoulder.

Helena starts violently, her hand coming up to her chest. “What?”

“Nothing,” Myka says, scanning the screen, “nevermind. What’s wrong?”

“Something caught, certainly,” Helena says after a moment. “I was attempting to use the sensors to ascertain specifically what, but I think an old fashioned approach would be best.”

“Let’s do it,” Myka says, and taps a button and then an override code. A klaxon sounds once, deep, and everything shudders to a halt. Somewhere close, something drips from the ceiling to the cement floor. Myka crosses to the center machinery in three swift steps and reaches into the gears, feeling blindly.

“That was brash of you,” Helena says, sounding surprised. “What is it?”

Myka grunts and her fingers slip over something, wet and thready. “I can’t tell with the goo… something soft. A cloth, maybe?” She strains to reach it, going on her tiptoes, and pinches it between her pointer and ring fingers. “Got it,”

On the wall, the screen beeps twice. The room hums mechanically. “Something’s wrong,” Helena says, tapping commands into the computer with no result. “Remove your hand before the machine does it for you.”

“I’ve got it,” Myka snaps, pinching her fingers together hard and tugging. Her grip slips and she fumbles to get it again. She can feel the gears twitching against her arm. “just a second.”

“It’s starting,” Helena says, more urgently, “don’t be foolish--”

“I said I’ve got it,” Myka snarls, and jerks at the cloth again. It’s heavier than she thought it would be, and she can’t quite yank it out. The machine comes to life with a clank and she yelps as it catches on her sleeve, dragging her further into it. Her chest bruises against the old metal teeth.

“Myka!” Helena grabs her by the back of the shirt and hauls. Myka flies free with a jerk, falling backwards hard, and impacting something soft and giving. _oof_ Helena grunts, and Myka realizes Helena has broken her fall, moving loose and disoriented under her. Myka sits up, rolling off Helena’s legs, and stands. Her right sleeve is ripped from elbow to wrist, but between her fingers is a square of thick but worn cloth, brown with age, covered in a thin layer of neutralizer. 

“It doesn’t seem enough to jam anything,” Myka muses, but everything is humming along again, all the indicator lights are cheerfully blinking green. Helena’s Farnsworth buzzes on the floor where it’s fallen and Myka answers it. 

“Good work,” Artie says. “what was the obstruction?”

“I’m not sure,” Myka looks at the square in her hand, turning it over.

“How did it get stuck in the gears?”

“I don’t know.” Myka balances the Farnsworth against her wrist and wipes the worst of the neutralizing goo from the cloth onto her pantleg.

“Well what good are you?” Artie asks, and hangs up. Myka rolls her eyes and turns to Helena, snapping the Farnsworth shut and shoving it into her back pocket.

“I think it’s part of something,” she says, “a purse, or,” she rolls it between her fingers, “very old shoe? It’s doubled layered, something inside it, to make it sturdier.” she sighs, and walks to the doorway. “If the new database was up---”

Helena has moved to block her way. “What the hell was that?”

Myka stares at her. “What? We did it, problem solved.”

Myka tries to walk past Helena and is brought up short by a white knuckled hand on her upper arm. “You risk unnecessarily,” Helena says, and Myka realizes she’s angry, eyes flashing, jaw clenched. “I told you to retreat, to wait. Your arm was nearly crushed!”

Myka pulls her arm out of Helena’s grasp with a hard jerk. “And I knew I could handle it before that happened.” She knocks her shoulder deliberately into Helena’s as she walks past. “And I was right.”

Helena chases her, yanking at her elbow until they’re side by side. Myka refuses to look at her. “You would hurt yourself, risk _death_ , just to spite me?”

Myka quickens her stride. She was hardly at risk of death. “Not everything is about you, Helena.”

Helena grabs her by the lapels and pulls her around. “I want to know why you keep _punishing_ me, Myka!”

Myka’s hands clench into fists, suddenly more furious than she has ever been in her entire life. There’s a pinprick of pain in her palm, where she’s clutching the stiff square of fabric, the corner digging into her skin. The flare of pain is lost in her wave of rage. “Are you seriously telling me you don’t deserve to be punished?”

Helena rocks back like Myka’s slapped her. Her hands fall to her sides and curl, loose and lost, into the long sleeves of her button down shirt, the cuffs hanging undone. She folds her arms across her chest quickly, defensively, and looks down. Myka walks past her, and Helena follows, silent except for the soft clicking of her boots on the floor. 

Myka holds the door into Artie’s office for her and Helena walks past, eyes downcast. Myka feels the faint stirring of guilt in her gut and shuts it down viciously. When she hands Artie the square he makes noises about washing it, how some artifacts ‘tend towards escape.’ There’s blood in the cradle of her palm, a tiny nick across her lifeline. She flicks at it impatiently with her thumb and forgets about it.


	2. never gonna be the same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conclusion.

Pete says he noticed it first, but that’s a lie. They _all_ noticed it first.

//

He and Steve stumble on the artifact immediately, back at the inn in less than 48 hours, coming in at half past midnight and eating sandwiches side by side in the kitchen with the lights off before passing out facedown on his bed, shoes still on. When he wakes up nine hours later and stumbles back to the kitchen, hunger fully activated, Myka is standing at the sink. She’s spreading peanut butter on green apple slices, and not the soupy organic stuff you have to stir with a spoon before you can eat. It’s Pete’s Skippy extra crunch, and she licks her fingers after each slice.

“I’m still asleep,” Pete whispers, “and this is a horrible, horrible nightmare.” At the sink, Myka eats peanut butter straight from the spoon, then dips back into the jar for more.

Claudia is sitting at the breakfast nook, frozen in horror. “ _Where am I_ ,” she whispers, and smacks the side of her head with an open palm. “Still here.”

“Myka?” Steve walks closer, soft-stepped like he’s edging closer to a rabid dog. “Are you… feeling okay?”

“Yes,” Myka says, and eats an entire tablespoon of peanut butter in one bite, no apple slice.

“Dear god,” Claudia says, “I think she’s having a stroke.”

“Goo her Steve,” Pete hisses. Claudia nods vigorously.

Steve throws them a look. “You missed our run this morning.”

“I have an announcement,” Myka declares. She sticks the spoon into the peanut butter and thumps it on the counter.

Claudia punches Pete in the arm. “You got her pregnant!” Pete chokes on air and is unable to respond.

“No,” Myka says. Pete sucks in a lungful of relief. “I’m taking a personal day,” Myka announces, and skips to the stairs.

The three of them sit, flabbergasted. Helena comes in through the back door and rinses her mug. She grimaces at the open peanut butter. “Pete, do refrain from eating directly from the jar,” she admonishes.

Pete points at her. “Evil plot. Evil plot!”

Helena sighs. “Hygiene is not an evil plot, Agent Lattimer.” She goes back the way she came, passing Abigail on the way in with pastries.

Abigail takes in the scene. “What’d I miss?”

//

They decide to let it lie--they’ve all dodged out of inventory one way or another, and it’s high time Myka joined them in dull-work-avoidance. 

The next day Myka texts Pete she’s taking another personal day and doesn’t punctuate. “I’m not her boyfriend anymore,” Pete protests, “she’s probably emotionally turbulent, pining from the loss of this hunk of manhood.” Claudia makes loud, disbelieving scoff. “Okay fine,” Pete capitulates, “but this is girl to girl kind of talk, okay.”

“Steve--” Claudia starts.

Steve cuts her off. “Don’t even try it. It’s beneath you.”

“Ugh,” Claudia says, “She’s probably just ignoring Helena….Bonham Carter,” She finishes lamely, as Helena comes into the office, Artie trailing at her heels. “She really hates Helena Bonham Carter.”

“Myka’s sick,” Pete volunteers over the awkward pause. “And she would want you to check on her.”

“No,” Artie says, and hands them clipboards. Multiple clipboards.

//

The stand outside Artie’s office and Claudia looks pointedly at Pete, who looks pointedly back. Helena hands her (five) clipboards to Steve. “I’m going to check on Myka.”

//

Pete sees her again an hour later, doing inventory. “How’d it go.”

“I do not wish to speak of it,” Helena says shortly, and makes a vicious notation.

//

Pete lurks aggressively outside Myka’s door with a pint of peppermint. “Ah-ha!” he crows, slightly slurred from sleep, jerking awake as she emerges near midnight. “I got this for you.” Myka looks at the ice cream and then back at Pete, faintly accusing. Pete scratches the back of his head. “I ate a little of it.” He offers her the half empty plastic container and she rolls her eyes.

“I’m okay, thanks anyway.” The syntax of her words, her voice, her manner, it’s all ever so slightly off, and Pete trails after her as she saunters down the hallway. She’s wearing a coat down to her knees, tied shut, and tall boots. “Claudia and I are going out.”

Pete blinks. “Oh, I didn’t know…” he trails off as she raps on Claudia’s door, quick and impatient. There’s a thump and a muffled curse from inside the room. “Does… Claudia know?” The door swings open and Claudia blinks at them, in bright pajamas, a half-chewed pen hanging from the corner of her mouth.

“Yeah,” Myka says in a voice that makes it clear she’s not been listening to Pete for some time. She nudges Claudia’s arm aside and strides into her room. “Don’t wait up,” she throws over her shoulder, and kicks the door shut in Pete’s face with the back of her heel.

It swings back open less than a second later. “What the fuck?” Claudia hisses.

“Just go with it,” Pete suggests, “try to figure out what’s going on. I’ve got vibes all over the place.”

“Ugh,” Claudia says, and shuts the door.

//

Pete falls asleep in the living room, waiting for them, eating old pringles out of the can and chugging the last can of Pepsi he’d hidden under the wilty looking lettuce. The front door bangs and he sits up, sending crumbs tumbling to the floor. Myka’s giggle rings out, loose and fluttery, and Claudia’s cajoling whisper. “Pete!” Myka calls in a loud whisper, and dissolves into laughter again. Claudia is under one of her shoulders, supporting her weight, and she looks unduly relieved to see Pete there, sweating in her short leather jacket, her makeup shining. Myka is wearing a black dress, riding high on her thighs, her curls extra bouncy, eyes extra smoky.

“Holy cow,” Pete says, gaping, “is that what you were wearing under the coat?” He takes Myka off Claudia’s hands, literally, wrapping an arm around her waist. “He-eyy, Mykes. Have a good girl’s night?”

“Oh yeah,” Claudia says, laying on sarcasm thick enough to build a house on top of, “I’ve always wanted to see that scene from Coyote Ugly re-enacted with one of my maternal figures.”

Myka hums a snatch of a song, leaning her head on Pete’s shoulder. He can smell the tequila on her breath. He leans away discreetly. “So something’s definitely wrong.”

“Yeah thanks for that analysis, Sherlock,” Claudia snaps, and then takes a breath. “Sorry. It’s been a stressful evening. At first: hilarious. Then-- incredibly alarming. I am _not_ prepared to be the adult figure in this particular partnership.”

Myka starts to snore, and Pete fumbles not to drop her. “Okay, let’s just… put her away.”

“She’s not a toy,” Claudia rolls her eyes, but she goes up ahead of Steve and holds the door open, helps gets the boots off and throw a blanket over Myka’s prone body, crooked and flopped over on the mattress. “Good enough,” Claudia declares, brushing her hands off. “Let’s deal with this after breakfast.”

Pete lingers for a second, watching her sleep. “There’s something wrong.”

“I know,” Claudia says, “we’ll figure it out.”

//

Myka clomps downstairs in the morning to a makeshift intervention. “I don’t understand this reference,” Helena says, but sits on the sofa with the rest of them. “And my presence will undoubtedly just make her more hostile.”

“But maybe less drunk,” Claudia says, and Helena’s face contorts like she’s trying to look scandalized but is mostly turned on.

Myka is in big sunglasses and sweatpants with the waistband rolled up and then worn low on her hips. Her shirt declares her property of the Secret Service, and it’s been cropped to flash her belly button when she moves. Helena spills tea on herself and doesn’t appear to notice. Claudia makes a choked, horrified noise. “What up bitches,” Myka says, and goes into the kitchen. 

There’s a moment of prolonged silence.

“Artifact,” Artie announces.

“Thank you sweet baby Jesus,” Claudia says, and everyone blows a sigh of relief.

“Carbs,” Abigail decides, “advil. Coffee.” She follows Myka into the kitchen.

Pete points at Artie. “Immaturity, radical personality shift, drinking, irresponsibility, slang, hipster clothing.”

Artie side-eyes Claudia pointedly, who gasps in outrage. “ _J'accuse_? I have way more class, Artemis. Way. More.” 

Artie closes his eyes and sighs to the universe in general. “You have a connection to the warehouse. Use it! You should be able to sense artifact influences around you, and match them to items stored in the warehouse.”

“You think it was something already here?” Steve asks. “She could have come into contact with something outside of the Warehouse.”

“Statistically improbable,” Helena interjects, but then reconsiders, “although with the Warehouse you never can tell.”

“Eliminate one before the other,” Artie says, “Claudia, close your eyes. Cast out your senses. This is what you’ve been training for.”

Claudia closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, going almost unnaturally still. She exhales, her breath puffing her hair out, and her fingers twitch a little at her sides. “Immaturity,” she repeats, her voice dragging slow out of her throat, dreamy, “regression….” her lips close for a long moment, the clock ticking loud in the background, and then part again, something on the tip of her tongue.

Pete’s stomach growls loudly and the spell breaks. Claudia’s eyes pop open. Helena sighs. Artie glares. Pete grins, sheepish. “Haven't had breakfast yet.”

“Regression,” Steve says, “we could check the database?”

“It’s not complete,” Claudia says, “but it’s better than nothing. And maybe in the Warehouse I’ll be… better at my job.”

“I’ll go with you,” Artie says. “Something’s,” he twitches his fingers in the air in front of his face, “familiar about this. I need to do some research. You two,” he addresses Pete and Helena, “are on Myka watch. If it’s an artifact it’s likely to escalate. Call us with changes.”

//

Myka doesn’t seem concerned with her silent escort, chugging three cups of coffee before Abigail cuts her off and then wandering the inn, thumping her shoulders into the edges of the doorways, sighing real big and loud and filling her pockets with pretzel sticks. After an hour she goes to a bookshelf and runs her fingers over all the spines. She plucks a hardcover copy of _The Portrait of A Lady_ and lets it fall open in her hand. She shoots a sly, sideways look at Helena. “I’ve always admired Henry James,” she says conversationally, and when Helena’s face contorts she uses the distraction to dart closer, close her fingers around Helena’s wrist and pull her close. “I’ve always liked the smell of a book, just barely open.” She slips her fingers around the pages, her nails glinting, and lets them flutter, inhaling deep. “Like promises and dreams.” Helena’s pupils dilate.

A few steps away, Pete coughs deliberately. Helena pulls away, and Myka tightens her grip, eyes flashing. Then she laughs, dismissive. “Maybe Virginia Woolf instead,” she says, turning away. Helena returns the book to the shelf, blinking.

“You okay?”

Helena acts like Pete hadn’t spoken. “She still has her love for books. Whatever the artifact is, it isn’t repressing.” She frowns at the wall. “Regressing. Immaturity.” She turns abruptly. “Give me the Farnsworth.”

Pete hands it over, keeping an eye on Myka, who’s fiddling with the stereo, humming a snatch of song he doesn’t know. “Got an idea of what it is?”

Helena waits until Artie’s on the other end of the call before continuing. “I think it’s age regression, or maturity regression. Her behaviour is… adolescent, but in a way that’s very Myka. Still has her love for literature--”

Myka settles on something involving an orchestra, slow and instrumental. “Boring ass music,” Pete interjects.

“Narrows it down,” Artie says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I was about to call you. There’s been a ping.”

“I’m staying,” Pete calls.

“Steve and I can handle it,” says Artie. “it’s part of the Faraday collection, I’ve been hunting it down for the better part of two decades. Mrs. Frederic’s here to help. Claudia will call when they know more.” He hangs up before Helena can reply.

On the couch, Myka snores gently, like a child passed out at naptime. Pete clicks on the television and turns the volume down, flopping into an armchair.

At the bookshelf, Helena dips her head closer to the spines and takes a soft breath through her nose.

//

Myka wakes up from her nap antsy, walking in circles in the living room and talking to herself. At first it’s odd, but manageable. After an hour she’s nearly manic, and her mumblings are intelligible, like she’s arguing with someone who isn’t there. Pete and Helena exchange increasingly worried glances. Just as Pete stands to address it, Myka turns to them, hands on hips. “I have to practice.”

“What?” Pete blinks.

Myka glares. “I know it’s not a,” she huffs, “priority, but it’s important to me. I made a commitment, and without practicing I won’t be ready for the meet.”

“Who are you meeting?” Helena asks, lost, but Pete snaps his fingers.

“You ran track in high school,” he says. “And… now you need to practice.”

“Yes,” Myka snaps. “now that you’re caught up, are you coming?”

“Ah,” Pete says. He looks at Helena. “Myka runs four miles every day.”

//

“This is kinda nice,” Pete says twenty minutes later. “I can see why Myka wakes up early.”

From the passenger seat, Helena shoots him a look. They’re rumbling along at barely more than an idle, the windows rolled down. Myka is running in her easy, coordinated stride just ahead of the car. “I’m not sure we can equate these two activities.”

Pete shrugs, taking his hands off the wheel to stretch. “Believe me, Helena, if you have to go jogging, this is the way to do it.”

“High school,” Helena says, switching tracks neatly. “so she is regressing into her own childhood.”

“Yeah,” Pete says, “so she thinks she needs to practice for high school sports… but she also knows who we are. Hopefully Claudia’s getting something useful.”

“I’ve never been particularly good at waiting,” Helena mutters darkly. The sun glints off the hood of the car into her eyes, and she slips big sunglasses on to lesson the glare.

Pete rips a sub in half and offers her a chunk, which she declines. “Aren’t those Myka’s glasses?”

Helena refuses to blush. “She can have them back when she’s not suffering delusions of youth.”

//

“Yeah,” Claudia says at dinner, coming back without Mrs. Frederic and looking like she’s about to fall asleep in her mashed potatoes. “I got nothing. I mean, we tracked down a few artifacts that have effects similar to what Myka’s going through, but we gooed the hell out of them. Was there any change?”

“The effects seem to be getting stronger,” Helena says. “although she retains enough to know she is supposed to be here, and knows who we are, she is rather… detached from reality.”

Pete is staring at Myka, almost without blinking. Claudia kicks him under the table. “Dude, table manners much?”

Pete makes a sharp gesture at her. “No, look at her.”

Myka hasn’t reacted at all to being the focus of conversation, picking at mixed steamed vegetables and stirring grated cheese into her potatoes. Claudia and Helena look at her for a moment. “She’s lacking in chicken?” Claudia volunteers uncertainly.

At that, Myka makes eye contact. “I’m vegetarian.”

“Her hair,” Claudia says, as Myka goes back to stirring her food instead of eating it.

“Her face,” Helena breathes, and now they’ve said it, it’s so _obvious_. Her skin is softer, paler, her cheeks a little fuller. Her hair is darker, a little bit longer, a little bit curlier. When she moves to reach for the pepper she’s ganglier, clumsier, less sure of herself.

“She’s de-aging,” Pete announces. 

Claudia stands. “I think I know---I need to go to the Warehouse and check some notes.”

“I’ll go with you,” Pete says, looking slightly rattled. “I can run and check where the artifacts are stored while you identify it.”

//

Dinner alone with Myka is rather awkward. After her declaration of being a vegetarian, Myka says nothing, and appears deep in thought as she eats. Helena isn’t exactly overflowing with conversational topics, and as soon as their plates are clean she takes them to the sink. “A book before bed?” she asks, and Myka nods, walking to the bookshelf almost uncertainly. She takes a wrong turn before correcting herself, like she’s fuzzy on the layout of the inn, and Helena’s stomach flips.

Myka picks _The Sleeper Awakes_ with a shy look back at Helena and a flush in her cheeks.

Helena makes a questioning noise. “Interesting choice.”

“I like it,” Myka says, “I can’t imagine what it would be like, to be asleep for hundreds of years and then wake up to an alien world.”

“No?” Helena asks neutrally. 

“I think it would be lonely,” Myka says quietly, tracing the lines on the cover art.

Suddenly, Helena misses the Myka of just a few hours earlier, brash and bold, teasing and a little seductive. “Not as much as you might think,” she says finally, and they sit on the couch until Myka falls asleep, slumped over with her head tilted at an awkward position, the book cradled in her palms, protective even in sleep.

//

Claudia and Pete return three hours later, looking less than victorious. “It has to be it,” Claudia is insisting, “nothing else makes sense.”

“What?” Helena asks, gesturing at Myka sleeping soft and young on the couch cushions. They take their conversation into the kitchen.

“Ponce de Leon’s hat,” Claudia says, checking her phone for the correct symptom list. “At first mental regression to youth, then physical youth.”

“But we saw it,” Pete disagrees, “in the Warehouse, intact, and we gooed it just to be sure. Nothing.”

“There are a lot of artifacts in the world,” Claudia says, “but there really isn’t that much overlap. Trust me, this is the right one. I just don’t know how it’s affecting her.”

“What’s the next step,” Helena interrupts what sounds like a rehashed disagreement. “the artifact, what’s the end result?”

There’s a short heavy pause. “Physical youth continues at an accelerated rate,” Claudia says, “until infancy.”

“I am not ready to raise Myka as my daughter,” Pete mutters, “or is she going to full on Back to the Future on us?”

“Don’t know,” Claudia says, “records didn’t say.” She rubs her forehead and sighs. “Look, Artie and Steve are back tomorrow, and I can call Mrs. Frederic. Let’s just get some sleep. Whatever’s gonna happen, we have more than tonight to worry about it.”

//

In the morning, Myka is already a young teenager physically and mentally. She must have passed through young adulthood while she slept, which is both a blessing and disheartening. Myka leaving her preteens and entering adolescence is heartbreaking. She wears this big button shirt, dug out of her closet somewhere, and the oversized glasses Myka only wears on Christmas when Claudia won’t let her shower and change and put in her contacts before presents and breakfast. She lets her sleeves cover her hands and trips over her own feet, constantly blushing and stuttering. She’s shorter too, clearly somewhere in the middle of her big growth spurt, and clumsy because of it. She’s timid and anxious that her father will be angry at her for sleeping over without permission, and she chews her nails ragged.

She looks a little awed that Claudia wants to talk to her, and won’t even look at Pete. She doesn’t seem to know who Helena is, but also doesn’t question any of their presences in her life, She knocks over the syrup at breakfast and apologizes profusely before asking who’s taking her to school, prompting triple deer in the headlight expressions.

“It’s… Saturday,” Claudia covers unconvincingly. Myka narrows her eyes at her.

“No it’s not,” she says, a little fire coming through.

“It’s like a Saturday,” Helena cuts in quickly, “because it’s a teacher work day. Lucky you.”

“Oh,” Myka says, sounding unconvinced. “I’m going to study, then.”

“It’s a day off,” Pete protests, “you can do something fun instead.”

Myka glares at him and looks, for a moment, exactly like herself. “Studying is fun.”

“Right,” Pete backtracks weakly, “love it, myself.” Myka leaves for her room, tripping on every other stair.

“Good save,” Claudia says, and offers Helena a fistbump.

Helena reciprocates. “I was a teacher, you know. Sort of.”

Pete cuts in. “ETA on everyone else?”

Claudia checks her phone. “Steve says another hour. No word from Frederic.”

Myka appears in the doorway, heralded by the sound of elephants falling down the stairs. “I can’t find my épée.”

Pete is confused. “What are you allergic to?”

“My épée,” Myka says again, stressing the last syllable impatiently. Claudia looks similarly blank.

“Of course,” Helena says pointedly, “your fencing equipment.”

“Yup,” Pete says, “that thing you do regularly at this time in your life.”

“I’ll help you look,” Helena says, and Myka clomps back up the stairs. “I’ll distract her,” she tells Pete and Claudia. “you two work on solutions.”

“Roger.” Claudia tosses her a salute, cheeky gesture paired with worried eyes.

 

“Your room is a mess,” Helena says, surprised. She supposed she expected Myka to be neat at every point of her life, organized to a fault.

“I was looking for things,” Myka says simply. “I’ll clean up after.” She opens the nightstand and paws through it. “I’m usually very neat,” she adds to Helena, sounding anxious again.

“I’m sure you are, darling,” Helena assures her, the endearment slipping out. “why don’t we--put some of these clothes away, if you’ve searched the closet thoroughly.”

“I’m very thorough,” Myka says seriously.

“I believe you,” Helena says. She finds some hangers on the floor and straightens them out in her palm. “Hand me some of your jackets on the bed, would you?”

The way Myka rushes to comply makes her chest tight. She passes Helena clothing and talks about books, and Helena can see how bright she is, even so young, her sentence structures, the way she’s analyzing the text before she has the words to describe what she’s interpreting. An intelligent girl with dark hair and dark eyes, chatting with Helena and doing household chores. The sight of it punches the air out of Helena’s lungs. She has always sought out dark haired girls in the crowds, with skin similar to hers, and with the rush of pain has always come the ugly twist of anger, that so many girls like hers are alive but Christina is gone forever. To feel it at the sight of Myka, especially Myka as a child, so excited just to speak with someone who cares what she thinks, is unbearable.

“H.G?” Myka’s voice is unsure, but there’s concern there, and she sounds like her older self, always carving a piece of herself out to think of Helena. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Helena says, shaking the feeling away. She picks up one of Myka’s blazers off the floor to keep her hands busy and pauses. The right sleeve is shredded all to pieces. It’s the jacket she was wearing the day they argued in the gooery, and it niggles at her memory, persistent. She smells apples, a crisp autumn breeze. “Myka, can you finish up here? I need to speak with Pete.”

Myka deflates a little. “Okay.” She looks disappointed to see Helena go.

“We’ll speak again at lunch,” Helena assures her, and Myka sighs deeply. Teenage melodrama at its finest, and Helena has to duck her head to hide a smile. 

//

“I’m Artie,” Pete says, standing in the Warehouse office. “And I have a piece of artifact and I’m not sure what it is yet, so I put it….” he trails off, turning slowly. Helena shuffles through papers on the desk. “In the cabinet!” Pete says triumphantly. He opens it and a cascade of plastic easter eggs tumble out. “Or not. What are these even for?”

“Stop before you hurt yourself,” Artie snaps, coming through the door. Steve trails him, tossing a can of soda at Claudia, who immediately snaps it open and drains it, long swallows. Her face screws up.

“Oh god the bubbles. It _burns_.” 

Pete closes the cabinet and throws Artie a look. “Who’s gonna hurt me? The Easter Bunny?”

Artie ignores him, going to the desk and pulling a drawer open. “Someone get me a static bag.”

“It,” Steve calls, fishing one out of his jacket pocket. He holds it open and Artie removes a purple stained square of something from a petri dish with gloved fingers. He holds it up to the light.

“That could definitely be part of Poncey Leo’s hat,” Pete notes. 

Artie closes his eyes briefly and powers past it. “Who’s with Myka?”

“Helena,” Claudia says, and pulls out her phone. “Hey,” she says after a moment, “it’s me. Standby.” She flashes Artie a thumbs up, and he drops the square into the static bag, pinching it shut quickly and flinching back. It sparks, snapping like electricity, and there’s a flash of white light.

“Yes!” Pete cheers. “That was it working right? The sound and noise of it working?”

Claudia blinks the flare out of her eyes. “Helena? Did it work?” Her face falls, and she turns away. “Okay.”

“It could take some time,” Steve offers in a half-suggestion, half-question, “not everything is instantaneous, right?”

“Right,” Artie agrees after a minute. Pete punches the wall, a fast explosion of rage that leaves as fast as it came. He leans his other hand on the back of a chair and pulls his little boy in trouble expression out. Plaster falls from the dent in the wall.

“I’ll… clean that. Later.”

//

Myka hasn’t aged any younger, frozen somewhere around 13 or 14, it’s a toss up. She could be younger, her height making her appear older, or even older, her face making her seem softer and younger. It’s hard to tell, and she’s not in any shape to tell them. She calls Claudia Tracy during an argument at breakfast that started with her demands to be on time to trigonometry and ended with her screaming that just because Claudia is the cool one doesn’t mean Myka’s grades aren’t just as important as cheer practice. As a teenager, her ability to hide emotion is shaky at best, and her obvious hurt at being valued less than her sister leaves Claudia swallowing hard and retreating to the Warehouse. At lunch she knocks over a glass, shattering it on the floor, and is stricken with regret. When Artie stoops to help she flinches away and apologizes again, calls him _dad_. He immediately departs to join Claudia. Pete coaxes her into a game of chess and intentionally moves the pieces incorrectly, making her flush indignantly and scold him mercilessly. Helena sits on a couch and pretends to read Vonnegut. Myka is happy to be all-knowing in a subject, and Pete is happy to have Myka glaring at him again.

At dinner Helena fixes her a plate of spaghetti-sans-meatballs, something in her gut twisting at the motion of setting food in front of a girl with a babyfat smile, but she can’t help the press of her hand to Myka’s forehead in passing, a motherly gesture that allows her to feel Myka’s high temperature. She asks if Myka is feeling alright and Myka blinks at her, eyes glassy. _do I know you?_ she asks, and when Helena recoils she topples from her chair, Steve making a diving catch from the other side. They carry her up to her bed.

Helena at first thought good, better that they don’t have to deal with a deteriorating memory on top of everything else, better that she’s unconscious while they figure out how to reverse the process. A day later and she revises her opinion: it would have been much better to deal with a suspicious but healthy child than Myka twisting in agony in her bed, sweating through the sheets and mumbling in and out of English. Abigail feeds her children’s aspirin for the fever and the pain. The day after that, she stops keeping down any food, no matter how thin or bland, and that night starts vomiting blood. They hook her up to an IV for hydration and put gel ice packs wrapped in towels against her flushed skin.

After she settles, under a sedative and blood still at the corners of her mouth, Artie disappears, finally agreeing to destroy the artifact, dangerous though it is to attempt such a thing, and makes Claudia come with him to help. Abigail drags Pete out for a shower and some food, and Helena takes the first shift at Myka’s bedside. She wrings out a washcloth and wipes Myka’s face, gentle. When Christina was sick she used to sit at her bedside for hours, humming lullaby songs and checking her temperature with the back of her hand. She finds now that she has forgotten the melody of her daughter’s lullabies, and Myka burns against her hand. Myka’s cell phone is lying on the bedside table, and Helena finds music preloaded on it, categorized into neat playlists. Most of them seem to revolve around jogging, but there is one labeled _Reading_ , and Helena clicks play.

“I have heard,” she says to Myka’s restless sleep, “that people unconscious from illnesses can hear when their visitors speak to them. I find I do not entirely believe it.” Myka’s eyes flutter under shut lids, and Helena takes her hand for a moment. It’s limp and covered in a fine sheen of cold sweat. Some song or other plays away in the background, gentle guitars. She puts Myka’s hand back on the mattress, unsettled. “I do believe I prefer you angry at me over this.” Myka exhales loudly, through her nose, and Helena quiets to watch her. She settles again, and Helena casts about for something else to say. “Ideally,” she continues after a moment, “you would not be angry with me at all.” She sighs and gives up on original sentiment. _Portrait of A Lady_ is still lying on the desk, and she picks it up. “Henry James, Myka, honestly. You do know how to wound me.”

//

Claudia calls near dawn, jolting Helena and Pete out of restless dozes, sprawled in chairs about Myka’s room. “Check for recent cuts,” she says, “if the artifact entered the bloodstream somehow, it could explain why destroying the hat froze the effects but didn’t reverse them.”

Pete pulls down the sheet and they look at her. She looks worse than she did when they’d fallen asleep, gaunt and pale, her ribs standing out against her shirt. The clothes hang loosely off her, looking bigger as she gets younger. “She was wearing pants, right?” Pete asks. “That day, in the gooery, she was wearing pants?”

“Yes,” Helena agrees, “and a jacket.”

“Okay,” Pete says, “so….”

“Hands,” Helena agrees. She picks Myka’s right hand, Pete takes the left. She runs careful fingertips over her arms starting at the inner elbow down to her wrist, tracing Myka’s veins as she looks for cuts and punctures. The bones in Myka’s wrists jut out sharply against her skin, paper thin and velvet soft.

“Nothing,” Pete reports, and leans over the bed further, cradling Myka’s jaw and tilting it to the side.

“Here,” Helena says, finding a razor thin line in the center of Myka’s palm, still red and angry. She takes the phone from Pete. “Yes, there’s a cut.”

“Okay,” Claudia says, “do you have a static bag?”

“Got it,” Pete says, fumbling in a pocket. He holds it open and Helena guides Myka’s hand in. They lean away and Pete closes it as best he can around her arm. There’s a flash of sparks, like a firecracker going off in the middle of a dark road, and they sputter to nothing within seconds, weakly popping before dying out completely. “It’s definitely it,” he says, loud enough for Claudia to hear. “but the reaction was weird.”

“Stand by,” Claudia says, and hangs up.

“They’re on their way,” Helena reports, tossing Pete his phone back.

//

“Okay,” Claudia declares, dragging a cooler down the hall, two thumps of her footsteps and then a grunt and the loud catching drag of heavy plastic on carpet fibers. She kicks the door open with the tip of her shoe. “Help, my weak muscles were distracted by muddling thoughts of science. I need a man.”

“Ha, ha,” Pete says, dry, but he reaches over and helps her carry the cooler inside, lowering to the floor by Myka’s bed. “She’s worse, Claud.”

“This is going to work,” Claudia says firmly, and throws the cooler open. Bags of blood, neatly labeled under heavy plastic, line the inside of the container, resting on a bed of medical grade ice packs. She looks at Helena and starts to explain: “It’s for---”

“I know what it’s for,” Helena interrupts. “Are you certain it’s compatible?”

“Yes,” Claudia says firmly. “This is going to work.”

“We’re here,” Steve calls from the hallway, and enters with Artie on his heels, carrying a largish canvas bag, a rectangle zippered shut, blue with a white cross on the front. Artie heads straight for the bathroom, the faucet creaking on. Steve lays the bag on the bed next to Myka and undoes it, lifting the lid to reveal gauze, sterile pads, IV catheters, sterilized needles, tubing. The water turns off and Artie comes out, hands sheathed in white powder latex.

“I can help,” Pete says, “combat medic training, the basics at least.” He heads to the bathroom to wash up.

“Food,” Claudia says firmly, and takes Helena by the arm.

Helena resists. “I should---”

“Four to six hours,” Claudia interrupts. “Food.”

“Alright,” Helena relents, and follows her to the kitchen.

 

“Soooo,” Claudia drags out, bent over and half-immersed in the fridge, “about you and--Jean-Paul.”

Helena blinks. “Who is Jean-Paul?”

“You know,” Claudia says, making an awkward gesture in the air behind her. “Pauly Shawn. And…. Pippi Longstocking.”

“Nate,” Helena says, “and Adelaide.” The name drags from her throat, fresh hurt like a scab being ripped off before it’s ready. “Has the icebox consumed you?”

Claudia sighs and stands. She offers Helena one of the sandwiches Abigail premakes and leaves clingwrapped in the vegetable drawers, piles of turkey and cheese on rye, ham and mustard on wheat, bacon lettuce tomato with mayonnaise and pickles trapped between wonderbread and layered with potato chips (Pete only). Helena uses her nails to peel the clingwrap apart, grimacing at the texture. She makes it into a crinkly ball and throws it away. “I just don’t understand why you and Myka can’t work it out.”

Helena considers several different responses and discards each of them. “I don’t entirely know,” she says finally. Claudia looks surprised at her honesty. “These things are… complicated.”

Claudia blows out a sigh so hard her bangs flutter. “Well uncomplicate them.” Helena starts slightly, surprised at her vehemence. “Life’s too short, H.G. Even for you.” She unwraps her own sandwich and grimaces. “One of Pete’s,” she says, and crawls back into the icebox to regain some composure. Helena welcomes the respite, thinking the way Adelaide had cried when she said goodbye. Her sandwich tastes like ash against her tongue and she leaves it in the sink, retreating back upstairs while Claudia’s distracted.

//

Myka wakes up warm, like grey early mornings and rainy nights, cocooned under a blanket that smells like home and the Warehouse, green apples and the air freshener candles Leena liked, clean laundry and pine. There’s an arm across her waist, a comforting weight, and warm breath huffs across the back of her neck in a soft even rhythm. Myka starts to stretch and has to abort the movement, pain ratcheting in every inch of her body, like she’s pulled muscles she didn’t even know she had. She makes a muffled noise of pain and the body behind her shifts. She smells soap, plain and sharp, and a hint of something softer.

“Myka,” Helena murmurs, and Myka expects her to pull away. Instead she feels the sharp point of Helena’s chin on her shoulders, the tickle of Helena’s hair on her skin. Helena’s voice is heavy with sleep and her hand curls around Myka’s waist, slipping under her shirt. “I’ve missed you.”

Myka’s whole body hurts and she has the nagging sensation that she may have called Artie _daddy_. She decides to roll with avoidance and relaxes with a sigh, melting into the mattress and nuzzling her nose into the pillow. “I missed you too,” she says like a secret, and when Helena smiles she can feel the curve of her lips on her cheek.

//

“I’m feeling much better,” Myka insists. 

“Yeah,” Pete backs her up, loyal, “she’s old and everything.”

Myka pins him with a look. “ _Old_?”

“And everything,” Pete repeats, taking a small step away from her.

“Inventory,” Artie orders. He surveys the pile of nearly fifteen clipboards on a table near his desk. “We need more clipboards.”

Myka grimaces. “My head is actually---”

Artie shoves six clipboards into her hands. “Don’t. Even. Take Concha Perez with you.”

“That’s reaching,” Myka informs him haughtily, “even for you.”

“Who--” Helena starts, but is cut off by a whooping siren, blaring for a second then off for two, blaring again.

“What the hell?” Pete yells, too loud in the two seconds of silence, “what is that?”

Claudia rushes to her computer. “There’s something wrong in the gooery control room.”

Artie gives Myka the hairy eyeball. “Is there.”

“I’ll go,” Steve volunteers.

“Me too,” Myka chimes in.

“Oh no,” Artie starts, but Myka cuts him off.

“Has Pete read the manuals?”

Artie stares at her. “Fine. Try not to shrink Steve.”

//

“Claudia said artifacts pinging in here would have a,” Myka searches for the right word, “...wonky effect on the machines.”

“Right,” Steve says, “but we fixed that. I mean, you’re,” he gestures at her, “you again. Big you. Sort of.”

“ _Big_ me?” 

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes,” Myka says, “but still, this is where I was exposed to the artifact, so it could have thrown everything off balance. 

The panel’s constant blaring ramps up to a constant, ear-piercing, never-ceasing wail. Myka and Steve slap their hands over their ears. “What do we do?” Steve yells. Myka goes to the control panel and scans the (many) warning messages.

“I’m setting an automatic reboot,” Myka shouts, “but the decontamination protocols will create a vacuum before flushing this room with neutralizing agents.” She taps the command into the keyboard, and then an override code.

“What?”

The computer beeps twice and the siren cuts short abruptly. “We need to leave,” Myka says into the silence, grabbing Steve by the wrist. Her ears are still ringing. “Now.” 

A politely computerized voice announces, _Decontamination protocols commencing in one minute_.

They stumble through the heavy door and Myka slams it shut. Steve enters a code into the door panel. “Locked,” he reports. He holds his hand up for a hive five and Myka reciprocates, smiling. “Go team.”

Myka’s Farnsworth blares and she answers it. “Hey. We restarted the system.”

_Decontamination protocols will commence in thirty seconds_

“We will have restarted the system,” Myka amends.

“Everything’s five by five here,” Claudia says, checking several screens at once. “The restart should flush out whatever the problem was.”

Artie’s face appears, pushing Claudia to the side. “Maybe now when we stick our ungloved hands into Warehouse machines and get cut with artifacts we _mention it to someone_.”

“It’s not like I knew what had happened,” Myka objects.

“Great excuse,” Artie snaps, “would have worked out real well when Pete was enrolling you in kindergarten.” He disappears.

“I would have made sure you went to preschool,” Steve says.

“Thanks.” Myka sticks the Farnsworth into her back pocket. _Decontamination protocols will be carried out in twenty seconds_ echoes around them. “Let’s get back.” They’ve taken only a few steps when the air raid siren starts up again. 

“Getting real tired of that,” Steve shouts. 

Myka fumbles with the Farnsworth. “Something’s happened,” Claudia shouts, and the siren changes from the intermittent whooping to a wall of noise. Myka presses the Farnsworth to her ear, and still can only hear some of what Claudia is bellowing. “restart… interrupted… have to… hear me?”

Helena comes around the corner at a sprint, skidding to a halt in front of them. “Here.” She hands Myka her cell phone and doubles over, panting. There’s a text from Pete open on the screen. _Claud sys restart stoppd hav 2 go back n do again_. Another earthquake rumbles under their feet, knocking them off balance. Myka grabs Helena’s arm to stabilize her. 

“C’mon,” Steve says, and he and Helena turn. Something on a shelf catches Myka’s eye, the placard falling to the ground with a clatter. _Henry Fluess_. “Myka!” Steve calls from ahead, and she reaches out quickly to the shelf, tucking a curved circle of glass into her pocket, two and a half inches across.

“I’m here,” she says, but it’s lost in the wailing alarm. She taps Steve on the arm and they go into control room together, Helena trailing behind. When they slam the door shut the alarm lessens, enough that they can hear each other. 

“Try resetting again,” Steve suggests, and Myka goes to the panel, enters the commands for a reboot again. It beeps twice and an error message appears, blinking in and out as the machine sputters, throwing out warehouse sparks. It shudders, and becomes boxier, with grey plastic covers and bright blue screen commands.

“The computer is de-aging,” Steve says, disbelief coloring his tone, and Myka tamps down the automatic response to argue, to analyze why it would react that way. It does look more like the computers she remembers from college, but she has actually read the manuals from before Claudia’s Great Update of ‘12, and she knows how to use the run command box. Unfortunately, before she can recall the correct string it shudders again and starts to twist. She steps back, the plan that’s been niggling at her brain since the alarm came back on forming into something solid and doable.

“I’ve got this,” she says calmly, “when it finishes--” she makes a vague hand gesture at the computer, still shifting-- “I’ll reboot it and join you guys outside.”

Steve frowns, like something she’s said pinged his inner polygraph. “Are you sure? If you do it manually, won’t it suck all the air out?”

Myka tries to choose her words carefully without making it look like she’s doing so. “Yes, but only after I’m safe. There’s no point risking all three of us, and I’m the only one who’s read all of the manuals, even the outdated ones.” Something she intends to rub in Pete’s face, who’d teased her when he’d caught her doing it.

Helena is watching her face, something subtle and suspicious in her dark gaze, and Myka sighs. “We don’t have time to argue,” Steve agrees, and he and Helena go out the door, the alarm hitting them like physical force as they open the door. “We’ll wait here and close the door after you come out,” Steve practically bellows, but Myka isn’t paying close attention, because she’s planting two hands between his shoulder blades at the same time she’s tangling her foot between his legs and pitching him forward into Helena, leaving them in a surprised, tangled heap three feet outside the door. Before they can recover, Myka pulls the door shut and draws her gun, smashing the butt into the electronics that control the doorlock and then shooting it once, just to be sure.

She returns to the computer, which is now something made of metal and chrome, with big joystick switches and clacky brass keys. Before it can shift again into something involving stones and the first advent of the wheel, she punches in the correct commands. She imagines Steve and Helena might be yelling something, but it’s really too loud to tell. Abruptly, the alarm cuts out, and the sudden silence feels ringing. 

_Decontamination protocols commencing_ the ceiling announces, and Myka barely has time to pull the artifact she’d grabbed from the shelf out of her pocket and breathe on it, pressing the cold glass to her lips and fogging it with quick sharp breaths. 

Knowledge of what the artifact is supposed to do is not one hundred percent comforting in the face of a total vacuum, she finds, and as pipes hiss to life around the room she slides against the wall, falling to her knees as the atmosphere vents around her. She keeps a death grip on the artifact, keeping it pressed to her mouth and pinching her nose with her other hand, curling her body up into a ball for protection. She can’t tell if the artifact isn’t working properly or if she’s hyperventilating too much to get proper oxygen, but her vision is narrowing and her chest feels tight. She realizes she’s going to pass out, and she closes her eyes, praying that it’s panic and not a miscalculation.

//

Myka wakes up in her bed with a headache and blurry vision. Again. It’s a tequila hangover times ten and she groans before she’s even aware she’s conscious, bringing up a hand to press against her temple and stifling a cry of pain as the movement makes every muscle scream, sore to the extreme.

“Hurts?” Claudia asks, voice overly bright. Myka fumbles to cover her ears, ignoring the protest of her muscles. Claudia bats her hands away with minimal effort. “Good.”

Myka opens her eyes fully and regrets the decision immediately, but she keeps them open, screwed up against the bright yellow of her bedside lamp, until they adjust and she can make out Claudia, sitting in a chair beside her bed, feet kicked up on the comforter. “Shoes,” she mumbles.

“Yes,” Claudia says, not without satisfaction, “my shoes are on the bed.” She drags one leg over the other, switching it up, and Myka grumbles again, wordless. “Too bad you had to play hero and now you can’t stop me from--” she points her toe down to rub the sole of her shoe against Myka’s pillow. “doing this.”

“Claudia,” Steve chides. He moves by the door, a dark blurry shape. She can’t make out his face, but he’s radiating hurt.

“Technically,” Myka says, her tongue sticking to the syllables, thick and clumsy, “I did not lie to you.”

“Technically,” Steve mirrors, “me going to tell Pete and Artie you’re awake isn’t abandoning you with Claudia.”

“Hate you,” Myka says weakly as he leaves. She turns her head towards Claudia with great effort. “What happened?”

Claudia sits up so she can pick up a pillow and whack Myka across the side with it. “Say it with me Agent Bering,” she says, and then punctuates her next words with a thump of cotton against Myka’s chest. “--De--comp--pression---sick--ness---is---a! Real! Thing!” She tosses the pillow aside and pokes Myka with her index finger. “And Henry Fluess did not know it was a real thing when his glasses lens became a rebreather artifact.”

Myka brings up one hand and bats at her, ineffectual. _Decompression sickness_ , of all things. “I should have thought of that,” she mutters.

“Lattimer level,” Claudia agrees, heavily disapproving.

“Still would have done it,” Myka continues, and Claudia rubs her shoes on the pillow again.

“Artie’s gonna kill you,” she sing-songs, “you’ve been out for fifteen hours and he’s been working up a lecture the. Whole. Time. Steve actually put in earplugs.”

“I fixed it,” Myka informs the ceiling petulantly. “I was _right_. Help me up.” Claudia hauls on her obligingly until she’s half slumped, half propped against the headboard. Helena is asleep in another chair, mouth hanging open. Myka blinks.

“Cute right?” Claudia stage-whispers. “She’s been out for while. Too many hours sitting by your bedside.” It’s said a little pointedly, and Myka catches Claudia by the fingers.

“I’m okay,” she says gently.

Claudia swallows. “But you weren’t,” she says, breath hitching, and Myka pulls her into a side hug, awkward and painful but necessary all the same. Claudia presses against her, warm and strong with every exhale. “You thought I was a cheerleader,” Claudia accuses, voice thick.

“I thought you were my sister,” Myka reminds her, soft and cutting all at once, and Claudia slumps into her embrace before pulling back, putting her shields back up. She wipes under her eyes and they both pretend they didn’t cry just a little bit.

“I’m gonna leave you two alone for a while,” Claudia says, “try not to make your mutual nap of exhaustion too filled with Brokeback tragedy.”

Myka rolls her eyes, which, like the hug, hurts but is necessary. “Claudia….”

Claudia silences her with fingers curled around her wrist, her pulse fluttering against Claudia’s palm. Her nails are painted bright red to match her hair, with purple decals (also to match her hair). “No,” she says, sharp. “Listen to me, Myka Bering. I’m going to be here, don’t you understand? I’ll be here when you’re all gone, and I don’t want to live with the weight of your idiot regrets, and your idiot sadness, and the angst and the crying---”

“There will be no crying,” Myka says firmly. 

Claudia ignores her. “I will _not_ live my life at Wuthering Heights, do you hear me?”

Myka smiles despite herself. “I hear you,” she says, faintly teasing, “you’ll make a great Regent, Claud.”

Claudia flushes, but when Myka moves to pull away she hooks their fingers together, suddenly serious. “Myka,” she murmurs, and her eyes have that otherworldly edge Frederic’s sometimes do. “Aren’t you tired of being not unhappy?”

//

Myka sleeps for another twelve hours and wakes up with a mouth full of cotton, dry and sour. There’s a weight at her back and across her hip, a body spooning her that’s already familiar. “This has happened before,” she says, her voice low and rough.

“Far be it for me not to capitalize on your near death encounters,” Helena says from behind her. She sounds like she’s been awake for a while. “I’m an opportunistic woman.”

“I see,” Myka murmurs. Really, she should kick Helena out and get up. She needs a shower and some food. And to brush her teeth. She _really_ needs to brush her teeth.

“Claudia said an odd thing to me this morning,” Helena continues, “before I came to see you.”

Myka lets her brain slip into something resembling a doze. “Claudia says many odd things.”

“Most of them aren’t about brooding bastard anti-heroes,” Helena says.

“Mmm,” Myka responds, “as long as you don’t wander the moors calling my name.”

“I think not,” Helena says, faintly offended. “As if we would ever regress to _Bronte_ , darling.”

Myka sighs. “You’re a snob, you know that?”

Helena huffs. “Says the woman who reads Henry James.” And then Myka’s turning on her back, Helena straddling her waist. Her hair is mussed badly from lying down, one side sticking up and tangled, and there’s sleep in the corner of her eyes. 

Myka blinks at her. “You really don’t like him, do you?”

Helens waves her hand like she’s physically transitioning them into the next conversation. “We need to talk.”

Outside it starts to rain, pitter patter against the glass window, pinging off the roof. “Not today,” Myka says. She starts to sit up and Helena pushes her shoulders back down.

“Enough,” Helena says. “I am going to talk, and then you may talk, and then maybe I’ll talk again. And then you can do as you see fit. I’m not one to pine.”

“Please,” Myka snaps. “if anyone’s Heathcliff you are.” She rolls her hips sharply, trying to buck Helena off, but she’s still a little weak. Helena’s breath catches. Her eyes are dark and wide, her weight on Myka’s hips makes something flutter in Myka’s belly.

“Nate and Adelaide,” Helena starts, biting her lip. She falls silent and tries to start again. “Christina--” her voice catches, and Myka reaches up to gather Helena against her, comforting. 

“Not now,” she says. “in a minute, but not now.”

Helena rests their foreheads together. “Not now,” she agrees.

“I need to brush my teeth,” Myka tells her.

Helena smiles, her fingers tangling in Myka’s curls. Myka lets her hands fall to Helena’s waist, tracing her ribs. Helena’s breath puffs against Myka’s lips. “In a minute,” she promises, and they kiss gently, Helena’s hair around their faces like a curtain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end! felt rushed to me, which is why it took a while to finish, and I hope it wasn't disappointing.


End file.
